


Not just for Christmas

by Gem_Gem, harrylee94



Series: Bonded by Words Stories [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Authors don't want to give too much away in tags, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, POV Sherlock Holmes, Redbeard was a dog, Surprises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-14 14:25:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17510294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem, https://archiveofourown.org/users/harrylee94/pseuds/harrylee94
Summary: It's Christmas again, the time for mounting debts, fake smiles, pestering family members, and presents you don't want.Sherlock hated the whole fussing farce and had since childhood. No presents were ever a surprise, there was no magic, no Christmas cheer, and there never would be.Or so he thought.--The Bonded by Words Stories are co-written stories by Gem and Harry.Bonded by words forever.The only link these stories have is that they were written by us both and are of the Sherlock Fandom.





	Not just for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a Christmas story...better late than never?

It was Christmas morning. Sherlock knew this because John had told him so the night before, having headed upstairs saying something about Christmas and a ‘Grinch’, whatever that was. There was a tree in the living room as well, a small one sat on the table, and gaudy tinsel and red hats trimmed with white ‘fur’ were draped over the skulls. John had even received a few pointless cards from his co-workers, though Sherlock could only barely stand their presence on the mantel.  
  
There were no presents at least. The table under the tree only had a plate of half-finished biscuits, which Sherlock had been making his way through for the past few hours before the sun rose, and their usual mess of laptops, papers and used mugs. John was awake now – he could hear him wandering around in his room upstairs – and already making his way down to the kitchen. He hadn't bothered to change this morning then.  
  
As the man entered the open living space, clothed in his pyjamas and dressing gown, he yawned, “Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” he said. “Tea?”

“Mm. Please,” Sherlock replied, making sure to let his mouth twist up into a small smile, enough to persuade John to give him another teaspoon of sugar, because apparently it put John in a much better mood if he did. He often felt like smiling at John anyway, so it was no real hassle for him. In fact it was most pleasant, especially when John returned it with one of his own. John had many smiles. All different. All attached to different moods, thoughts, wants. Sherlock had them all documented. A room of John’s smiles nestled deep within his Mind Palace. “Merry Christmas, John.”

As hoped, John returned the smile – this one his sleepy but satisfied and comfortable smile – and headed over to the kitchen, rubbing at his eyes as he prepared the mugs. And yes, there was the extra teaspoon of sugar, excellent. “Any plans for the day?”

“...There are times I don’t precisely know if you are being sarcastic or not—It’s _Christmas_ , John. The plans are not difficult to decipher. No doubt Mrs Hudson will come up at some point, with simple, obvious gifts, mince pies and chocolate, beseeching me to play for her, to which I will concede,” Sherlock said with a sigh, annoyed he’d even been asked. What else was he to do on this dreadful day?

John nodded and wandered to the fridge to fetch the milk but fell into a silence soon after, waiting for the kettle to boil. It was an odd silence, one that tickled up Sherlock’s spine, prompting a squirming fidget. Something was off. Something was teasing the edges of Sherlock’s awareness, promising him clues he was missing, things that needed to be found and addressed. John was hiding something from him.

“...Do _you_ have plans?” Sherlock asked with the beginnings of a frown, sitting up straighter and squinting, looking at the slope of John’s back, the tilt of his shoulders where he was leaning against the side, and the wiggling flex of his naked toes.

The kettle clicked off and John finished making the teas, “I know you told me not to, but I got you something.”

Sherlock scowled, deflating and slumping back, disappointed, “ _Why_?” he muttered, searching John’s expression when he could see it and then following the movements of his hands, before searching the room, trying to spot this clearly elusive present. He’d not seen anything new or moved since the decorations had gone up.

John shrugged and brought Sherlock’s tea to his awaiting hands. Now that he was closer, now that Sherlock was really looking, he could see the edges of excitement in that comfortable smile as John continued to stand in the middle of the room, “Do you want it?”

“...You would dispose of it if I said no?” Sherlock snorted, clutching the mug and then standing to get a better look around. Nothing was out of place or blatantly bulging with a badly hidden present. He would have seen it beforehand. He would have noticed. “Obviously it’s a small thing. - Hopefully not a tie. I _hate_ ties.”

“No, it’s not a tie,” John said with one of his pleased, amused smirks as he sipped his tea.

Flushing hot in the face, unprepared for John to have succeeded in doing something behind his back. For the situation and the resulting embarrassment, Sherlock narrowed his eyes, watching John penetratingly, “You think I’ll like it— _No_ , you _know_ I will like it...you look almost... _smug_ ,” he said, getting more and more curious the longer he stared at John. “But things that I like are not small…nor something that you know unless I tell you, and I _haven’t_ told you. You’ve not asked me, in fact. You didn’t ask me _anything_.”

John just continued to smile that smile and sipped his tea again, “Hold your hand out, and I’ll give it to you.”

Sherlock huffed, mind reeling, and gave John a sweeping glance, not seeing any lump or bump under his clothing where something could be tucked, then slowly held out his left hand, “I _hate_ this…just so you know.”

“You won’t,” John said cryptically, and pulled out an unassuming envelope from his dressing gown pocket, one which Sherlock had somehow overlooked, placing it between his fingers.

“... _This_ is it?” Sherlock muttered, glancing from the white rectangle to John and arching one eyebrow. “ _Just_ this? _This_ is what you’re excited over? What you think I will like?--Is it a murder case?”

“Open it,” John told him, taking the mug from Sherlock’s hand and putting both of their drinks on the table.

Suddenly enthusiastic and more than a little impressed, Sherlock reached for the letter opener, slicing the envelope with a put on irritated sigh, “What if I don’t want or like it? - Who _exactly_ have you been talking to about this? You’ve talked to someone. You _must_ have. You’re thorough. You would have double checked, triple checked, that I’d be interested in this, otherwise you’d not be this confident.”

John remained cockily silent as Sherlock pulled out two pieces of card that were sandwiching several pieces of paper. The first that caught his eye was a photo of a dog, a German Shepherd in fact, a puppy who couldn’t have been more than six months old. He wasn’t entirely sure why there was a photo of a dog in this supposed ‘present’, but John remained in a more palpably excited silence when Sherlock glanced up at him in askance. There were also several sheets of paper with numbers written on the back, and so Sherlock opened the one labelled ‘1’.  
  
‘Dear Sherlock,’ the letter read in one of those horrible handwriting typefaces, ‘I haven’t met you yet, which I am very upset about, but John’s told me a lot about you. You don’t know me, but John has visited me many times over the past few weeks. On that first day, when he came to the shelter, I ran to greet him, just like everyone else, but I was so scared. I’ve been overlooked so many times, and I didn’t have the best start in life, but when the owner of the shelter tried to lead John to other dogs, he came over to me instead! John made me so happy I couldn’t stop wagging my tail!

‘I always get so excited when John tells me about you though; about the exciting, brilliant man who has a big heart. I’m always going off and trying to discover new things, but when John finds me – and he always does – he keeps me with him with stories of you and your adventures and shows me pictures of you all the time.

‘Pictures are not enough though. I’ve grown to love you from the stories John tells me, and I can’t wait to meet you. You’ll be the best Christmas present ever!’

Under the text there was a smudged paw print the correct size and shape for a German Shepherd, a puppy as the photo had shown.

Sherlock blinked at it, finding his hands suddenly unsteady, and swallowed, staring at the photo, re-reading the letter, and then looking up at John, “A...dog,” he found himself uttering, voice a strange, wonky, strained whisper. The world around him tilted, went quiet, tunnelling on the weight of the papers in his hands and the expression on John’s face. His heart throbbed hard, throat closing, as he gaped at John, at the smile still on his face, at the glint in his eyes, at the anticipating lift of his brow, and then the sudden furrowing of his forehead.

“Yes,” John said, shifting on his feet slightly. “A dog.” He was starting to look nervous now, the excitement starting to bleed into worry with an ounce of regret.

Blinking rapidly, everything but John’s face blurring at the edges, Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from gawking at him, mind sluggish but still whirling. How had he not seen this coming? How had he been so blind to this? John had sneaked off to visit this dog, to pick out this dog, and Sherlock had known nothing. Absolutely nothing. He could recall noticing dog hair only once, though John had been to the park, had walked through it on his way back from a night out with friends, smelling of booze and smoke and sweat and cheap cologne.

“Is… is it not good?” John asked, his smile gone now, replaced with uncertainty and a loss of confidence.

“...Good…” Sherlock repeated, mouth dry, voice tight. He watched John’s posture deflate, saw when the spark from his gaze left, and witnessed the dropping of his shoulders. He stared and stared and stared and then everything fell from his hands, fluttering to the floor with a snapping flash of paper, and Sherlock closed the distance between them before he knew he’d moved at all. His hands reached, cradling John’s face, pulling him in, completely out of his control as they guided a startled John closer. Sherlock took a sharp, gasping inhale through his nose, surprised at himself, and found himself leaning in and kissing John soundly on the mouth.

John stiffened, his eyes growing wide in shock, his back straight, his arms held to attention at his sides as he inhaled suddenly through his nose. His lips were pliant but unmoving. He wasn’t kissing back. Sherlock was kissing him and he wasn’t kissing back. Wasn’t kissing back.

Sherlock paused, all consciousness snapping back into place, painfully vivid, and then reared back, “I... _I’m sorry_! I’m sorry, John, I...I don’t...I…” he stammered in a rush, face hot and heart thumping so hard, so fast, that he could feel it in his neck, in his head, in the tips of his fingers. He couldn’t look at John, couldn’t bear to see the disgust on his face. “I...don’t know what came over me. Sorry. _So_...sorry…” Fumbling back, Sherlock slipped on the fallen papers and crouched quickly to gather them up, fingers shaking as he tried to gain back control, failing to properly stack everything back together, bending the dog photo slightly. “Th-thank you. It’s...I...I...I don’t know exactly how you...you...but I…”

John’s hands suddenly came into view, covering his own quivering ones and Sherlock found him crouched before him, an understanding, if flustered and confused, smile greeting him, “You’re welcome,” he said, his cheeks a bright pink, “but, uh, yeah, a little… a little much.”

Nodding, Sherlock ducked his head, avoiding eye contact once more, “Yes. Right. I know that. Bit not good,” he mumbled.

“I didn’t say that,” John said, picking up one of the pieces of paper.

“It was implied,” Sherlock retorted, though quickly glanced up, scrutinising John’s expression through his lashes. “At any rate, I...I...I shouldn’t have done it. It was a...a heat of the moment type of...of _thing_.”

“It’s fine,” John said, looking at Sherlock with an honesty he wasn’t expecting, and even a spot of humour. “It’s just… I thought you were married to your work.”

Sherlock coughed out a small laugh and slowly stood back up, arranging and then rearranging the papers, eyes drawn to the photo once more, “Who told you to do this?” he asked, clearing his throat and giving it a wave. “How did you...decide to...do this for me?”

John looked down at his paper, a nutritional diet it looked like, “Do you remember the case of the missing diadem?” he asked. “The family dog had just had pups. You kept looking at them every time Mrs Deasey looked away.”

“Oh. Did I? I...don’t...recall that,” Sherlock murmured, feeling his already overly warm cheeks get hotter. Had he been so transparent? He was sure John had been more focused on Mrs Deasey, on the client, as he often was. Patient and friendly and accommodating, that was John Watson. Suddenly suspicious, Sherlock leaned in and angled his head, trying to read his gaze. “ _That’s it_? That can’t be it. - You spoke to someone. You _must_ have. Was it Mycroft? Was this his idea? I shan’t be bribed into--”

“I thought he could be part of the family,” John interrupted, voice a higher volume to drown Sherlock out, as the edges of annoyance crept in. “And it was _my_ idea. Only mine. Your brother had nothing to do with this.”

Sherlock closed his mouth with a snap, finding no deception, only exasperated determination, and returned his attention to the dog, to the papers, “You thought you would buy me a dog because I looked at puppies?” he enquired out loud.

“I thought I’d buy you a dog because I know you would cherish it,” John replied with one of his softer smiles.

“And...you?” Sherlock asked, voice wavering slightly as he shifted his stance, wanting this with John. It was a tether, a link, something that would connect them later on if John liked the dog. In some cases, dogs owned between two people were a lot like children, forcing visitations. John, when he left, would come by more if Sherlock had the dog, and Sherlock could use the dog as an excuse to see John. He shook the notion of John eventually leaving from his mind for what felt like the thousandth time that month. “You...said you thought he could be a part of the family. Our...family? He would be your dog too, living here. - In fact, he’s already more your dog than mine.”

“Sherlock,” John sighed, “would I have bought a dog for you, someone who lives in the same flat as I do, if I didn’t want it?”

“I...really don’t know,” Sherlock confessed under his breath, pressing his lips together in a tight, firm line, unable to look at John again.

“Sherlock,” John said again and stepped a little closer to move into his view. “You read the letter. I visited that dog for weeks. I told him stories, showed him pictures, played fetch, gave him belly rubs and let him sit in my lap. Of _course_ I would love him.”

Sherlock scoffed and lifted his head, giving him a weak glare, “John, this letter is a _fictional_ letter from a dog,” he said, waving it around and then glancing it over, “how am I to know what you actually did or didn’t do? And...and...what if…” He sighed and quickly cut himself off from that direction of thinking, not wanting to raise the subject of John perhaps leaving in the future, not after he’d just embarrassed himself moments before, not after having to continuously push the thoughts from his head. “So, he can be here...today? The dog? We’ll go get him? They are the plans of today you were so excited over.”

John nodded, “The shelter’s open after 1pm, though only for a few hours,” he explained. “He’s already been given a name, but you can change it if you like.”

“After 1 then,” Sherlock said, swallowing hard, which only made the lump in his throat to feel ever bigger. He shifted through the papers, trying to find the name of the puppy, feeling overcome once again at the thought of owning a dog again, that John had done this for him.

John chuckled and pointed at one of the sheets near the top, “There. They called him Orion.”

“Ah. That’s not as bad as I was fearing,” Sherlock told him, looking back up at John and giving him the mildest smile that he could muster, hoping it looked better than it felt. His eyes fell to John’s mouth and he dragged them to his chin instead. “Thank you, John. I...didn’t expect anything like this, clearly, and I _will_ cherish him. I do love dogs. Quite a lot. Actually, I love animals in general. If I had to choose between spending time with animals or spending time with people, I’d pick animals every time.”

“I noticed,” John said with a self-satisfied smirk, though it had the warmth of John’s happiness in Sherlock’s joy. “So! What shall we do until then?”

“Have breakfast, I suppose,” Sherlock replied with a loose shrug, trying to calm his still racing heart as he reached for his tea and retreated to his chair. “And Mrs Hudson will need to be told - I’ll leave that to you.”

“She knows,” John said, hiding another smile behind his mug.

Sherlock lifted his eyebrows and then blinked, leaning back in surprise, unsure if he liked how easily John had tricked him, had shocked him, had gone behind his back for so long without his knowledge, “Oh. She was in on it, was she? I should have known.”

"She might have some dog themed gifts for you."

“Dog themed gifts?” Sherlock echoed with some amusement, finding the idea of such a thing adorably ridiculous. Of course Mrs Hudson would buy them presents that mirrored the latest big change in their lives. He didn’t like how he’d not known about that too, though, how both Mrs Hudson and John had successfully schemed all of it without Sherlock catching even a hint of it. He lifted his eyebrows but John just shrugged mysteriously. “What on earth are ‘dog themed gifts?’”

"I guess you'll have to find out," John said as he wandered back into the kitchen. "Toast?"

“Yes,” Sherlock replied distractedly, incapable of stopping his gaze from flicking back to the dog photo. A dog that would soon be in the flat. A dog that would soon be his. Be theirs. It had been a long, long time since he’d had a canine companion and the tidal wave of the loss, heartbreak, the loneliness, the sweeping twister of happiness and love, whenever he thought back to that time, was often too much to handle. The brunt of it could and had easily tipped him over into misery, transforming him back to his childhood, back to the feel of soft, long fur under his fingers and a wet nose against his cheek. Sherlock inhaled sharply, pushing back on those memories, the bad and the good alike, and leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling.

“Maybe we could have lunch with Mrs Hudson before heading out?” John suggested. “Marmalade or Jam?”

“Jam,” Sherlock intoned, focusing on a tucked up spider in the far right corner. It had spun itself a small web in its hidey hole and had settled quite happily, legs poking out only a little as it laid in wait for a meal on wings to pass it by.

“Sherlock?”

Tipping his head down, Sherlock found John standing before him, plate of jammy toast in hand, and a concerned frown on his face, “John,” he said in reply, taking the offered food with a nod of gratitude. “Thank you.”

John hummed, “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered. “Yes, fine. _Absolutely_ fine. Yes.”

“Please don’t lie about this.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock assured him, giving a long look at the pinched corners of John’s mouth. A mouth he’d kissed. A mouth he now knew the sensation of. It was beguiling, poignant, and gloriously addictive. He dropped his gaze swiftly, taking up one slice of toast to occupy himself with.

“You _are_ ,” John replied, settling in his own chair and leaning forwards, elbows on his knees. “What is it? Tell me?”

Snorting, Sherlock took a large bite and rolled his eyes, “ _Why_ would I lie?”

“Because you’re surprised,” John said. “Because you’re… scared.”

He tried not to pause mid-chew, though wasn’t sure he was completely successful as John’s eyebrows twitched up knowingly, “What _exactly_ do I have to be scared about?” he drawled around his mouthful.

“A dog’s a big responsibility,” John replied, but there was a sad, knowing look that flashed across his face.

“Really? I had _no_ idea,” Sherlock shot back sarcastically, head tilting as he absorbed John’s mannerisms and response. He replayed the look that had passed. He knew that look. Felt it twist his own face. Sherlock opened his mouth to comment, to bluntly state his deductions, but nothing came out and he swallowed, closing it again with a feeling of further affection for the man across from him. “I know, John. I’m not an idiot.”

John rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair, “Alright. Just know that you don’t have to accept it if you don’t want him.”

Sherlock felt his chest cease up, “Why would I do that to him?” he snapped.

John smirked in reply and picked up his own plate of toast, “Should we set up the basket in the living room then?”

“...Possibly,” Sherlock mumbled, glancing around at the cluttered space with a frown. They needed to clear an area.

“… Your room?” John asked, quite sensibly foregoing the option of the kitchen.

“Maybe,” Sherlock answered, giving John’s palpable smugness a glare.

“Will he even _need_ a basket?” John smirked.

“Shut up.”

John chuckled and tucked into his breakfast with more vigour, “Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

“Yes. Merry Christmas, John,” Sherlock sighed, watching him from under his brows and looking, once again, at the dog photo, a happy, though uncertain, wonky smile threatening to take over his face.

Breakfast was soon over and John had headed into the kitchen to wash up their plates. It was, of course, at that moment that Mrs Hudson appeared from the landing.

“Merry Christmas!” she called as she entered, carrying a small plate of mince pies.

Enticed by the sugared pies, Sherlock got up and wandered over, making sure to look the woman over for the so-called ‘dog themed gifts’ before steering her further into the living room and out of earshot, “Yes, yes, Merry Christmas, Mrs Hudson,” he murmured at her bright grin and twinkling eyes.

“Merry Christmas!” John called from the sink but remained where he was. Probably to allow Mrs Hudson to reveal her secrets.  
  
Unfortunately, there was nothing obvious (again), but the landlady had clearly caught sight of the opened envelope as she looked up at Sherlock with a beaming smile and said, “Oh isn’t John _wonderful_? I thought it was a superb idea!”

“I _kissed_ him,” Sherlock hissed under his breath, peeking at John’s back, his flexing shoulders and working arms. He glared at Mrs Hudson and took up a mince pie, gesturing with it. “He...he gave me the silly letter and I...I _kissed_ him, Mrs Hudson. - I’m blaming you for this! I don’t like surprises of this...calibre. It makes me do...things. Stupid things. _Terrible_ things!” Clearing his throat, Sherlock lowered his voice even more, bending to her and taking a bite from the pie to mumble around. “You were in on it and I hate it, and now I’ve showed my hand, ruined everything, and I’m blaming you.”

“Everybody loves surprises,” Mrs Hudson said, her eyes bright and her smile brighter. “And it took you long enough! That boy’s been making eyes at you for months!”

Sherlock flushed and made his glare all the more irked at how carefree and unconcerned his landlady was, “He didn’t kiss me back,” he told her. “Not that I expected him to. I didn’t even _want_ to kiss him and yet…” Throwing his arms up, Sherlock turned from her, looking back over at John and pacing, brushing crumbs from his mouth as he turned back to his landlady. “This could be a replacement, you know. He could be giving me a dog so it’s easier for him to leave later on. It’s _clever_ , I’ll give him that. Same loyalty. Same expressive eyes. And this way, this way he won’t feel as guilty when he does leave, and it’ll give us a reason to...to see one another because he won’t come over otherwise, not when he’s off having a life _without_ me. - God, it’s _smart_. He’s...impressed me...”

Mrs Hudson frowned up at him, then shook her head, “Oh you silly man,” she said. “He’s not going to _leave_. Any fool with eyes can see he has no intention of doing that.”

“Perhaps not now,” Sherlock conceded with a tip of his head, finishing off the mince pie with another few bites, then dusting off his hands. “He wants to have lunch with you before we go and get…” He looked over his shoulder at the messy spread of papers. “Orion.”

“Oh wonderful!” Mrs Hudson proclaimed, drawing John’s attention from where he was drying his hands. “I already have the duck in the oven.”

“I haven’t had duck in _years_!” John replied with a smile. “Would you like any help with the veg?”

“It would certainly make things easier,” Mrs Hudson said with a shining smile.

“No chicken or turkey?” Sherlock asked her as he turned from them both, using the living room windows to watch their reflections, to spy on John. He knew John was happy living at the flat for the moment, though he also knew John could be happier, that he was forever chasing something else, something outside of their little world. Women mostly. Boring women with boring lives, which would no doubt end in a boring wedding.

“Duck is much juicier,” Mrs Hudson said. “Do you think I should save some for Orion?”

Though she could be asking their of them, Sherlock shrugged, flicking his eyes from her cheery reflection to John’s, trying to see what Mrs Hudson had stated, that he really had no intention of leaving. What was she seeing? She was a shrewd, intelligent woman, yet she was a romantic, a foolish person who often let emotion warp her mind. It could be something, it could be nothing. He fixed his whole attention on John, searching for one thing in particular and only that one thing. John didn’t seem to be acting any differently than normal, though he was glancing at Sherlock every so often. More than he normally did, more than Sherlock had caught him doing. In fact, those glances lingered longer than Sherlock would have expected. How had he missed this? Was this it?

“We wouldn’t be able to eat it all in one sitting anyway,” Mrs Hudson said with a nod and set the plate on the coffee table. “It’ll be another hour yet before we have to start the vegetables, but feel free to come down before then.”

“Will do, Mrs Hudson,” John said.

“I’ll come too,” Sherlock told them, throwing a smile over his shoulder for good measure, peeking at John. John sent him a grateful look and one of his personal smiles that could only mean he was proud of Sherlock for doing a small thing. Mrs Hudson, meanwhile, tittered a farewell and headed back out of their flat.

“I didn’t say I’d help,” Sherlock said when she’d left, reaching for another mince pie and trying to push down on the odd feeling that was building through his body. It made his skin tingle, the hairs on his nape stand on end, his skin prickle with heat, and his heart skip a beat. Was there something there? It was difficult to pinpoint.

“I noticed,” John said as he stretched, taking particular care of his left shoulder. “Being there’s still good though.”

“I’ll take my violin down with me,” Sherlock added, still watching his face and every move he made, feeling stupidly out of his depth, feeling slow. “Play a little something.”

“She’d like that,” John said. His smile was soft, features relaxed, eyes focused and alert when he looked at Sherlock. “I’m going to wash, change and get Mrs Hudson’s present.”

Nodding, heart in his throat, Sherlock let him get one foot out into the kitchen, passed the open partition, before he turned to look at him properly, “John,” he croaked, bringing John to a pause. “I haven’t anything for you. - What you’ve done for me, what you spent time on and bought, is perhaps the _best_ thing I’ve received in a very long time…”

John frowned back at him in honest confusion, “You don’t have to get me anything,” he said, “but, if you feel like you have to, you can get me something later.”

“What would you like?” Sherlock questioned.

John chuckled, “That’s not how presents work.”

“Of _course_ it is. You are _always_ asking for lists. Christmas lists, birthdays lists, shopping lists. You are told what is necessary, what is wanted, what others would like, what they think they need, and you pick and choose what to get them from that knowledge, written and gathered alike,” Sherlock pointed out with a scoff. “It’s rare you know _exactly_ what to buy. Especially when the people in question have everything they could possibly need or want—Which you do, I might add.”

John inclined his head in agreement, “You’re right, I do.” There was that soft look again. “There’s nothing I want really.”

“Nothing at all?” Sherlock pressed, feeling dizzy, stupidly hoping, foolishly wanting him to say something, anything, about the kiss, their friendship, their ‘them-ness.’

John shook his head, “Everything’s… pretty much perfect,” he said. “Orion’s just the cherry on the top.”

Sherlock tried not to feel dejected and forced a smile, “Right. Yes—Perhaps a new laptop?”

“I’m barely able to use the one I have.”

“It’s old. Falling apart from the inside,” Sherlock told him and waved a dismissive hand, turning away. “It needs replacing. I’ll do it. It detrimental for you and for me. Your blog, as romanticised and frankly lacklustre as it is, does bring in clients. Stupid people look at stupid things, I suppose. My site is obviously too intelligent.”

“A new laptop then,” John said and Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll be back in a mo.”

“I’ll be here,” Sherlock said with a slow sigh and a nod, trying to catch sight of John in the mirror above the fireplace, wanting to watch him go. He could just about see him, a thin line of his face visible, but he stepped away a moment later. Sherlock looked aside once John had vanished from the reflection, but then he heard John stop again.

“I forgot to ask,” he said.

Sherlock hummed, feigning vague interest and pretended to be annoyed with the drooping bow of some tinsel looped across the top of the mirror, “What?”

“Do you _really_ consider yourself married to your work, or was that just something to stop me asking stupid questions?”

“You ask that as if it’s a real marriage, John,” Sherlock replied with a faked snort of amusement, heart thundering in his head, throat, chest, and fingers once again as he tried to think, tried to reason, tried to come up with an answer that wouldn’t push John away. He had no idea what this meant. Was Mrs Hudson right? Was he right? Was John interested or not interested? Why was he asking this now? “I can’t be the only person to say such a line to you or to someone you know. Many say they are committed to their work. Workaholics, is the word generally used. Work comes first for them. It’s their life, their passion, their entire reason for being--” He grimaced at his word choice and quickly tried to backtrack, knowing what he was saying wasn’t helping if John was asking what he hoped he was asking. Glancing quickly at the mirror, trying and failing to see John’s face and read his expression, Sherlock swallowed. “It was both. Back then. I was trying to focus and you were asking trivial, irrelevant, and yes, _stupid_ questions. - I wanted to make sure you knew how much it meant to me. What was more important to me at the time. I thought you were flirting and propositioning me and I wanted to set you straight.” The irony wasn’t lost on him and Sherlock clenched his hand around the tinsel, took a breath and then stiffly looked over his shoulder at John. “Back then it was the best thing to have happened to me...”

John’s face was almost curiously blank, but he could see a hint of anticipation in the way his fingers twitched, “Back then?”

“Yes. I only had the work back then,” Sherlock said. “Nothing else and no one else mattered…but things change, don’t they? Life goes on. What you thought you solely wanted, needed, and couldn’t do without, becomes something easily replaced or forgotten in the wake of someone new...”

John continued to look at him blankly, but his shoulders relaxed, and soon he lips curled up into a smile and the corners of his eyes wrinkled as relief and excitement and joy made his eyes shine, “Can I be greedy and ask for two gifts?”

Sherlock blinked and him, “ _Two_? Well...all right. I suppose a dog is worth more than one gift in return,” he said, not knowing how he should feel about the change nor the question. Had he said it wrong? Was the hint too vague? Was he wrong? Shoving the tinsel back into place, Sherlock tried to find something to occupy his hands with, something to distract him from the awkward, twisting disappointment, and clutched his hands behind his back. “A laptop and what else?”

“A date,” John replied, stuffing his hands in his dressing gown pockets, his stance oozing confidence, though his eyes betrayed his warring thoughts.

“...A...date?” Sherlock stared and tried to understand, light-headed. “The _fruit_?”

John raised an eyebrow at him, as he usually did when Sherlock was missing something ‘obvious,’ “No; a date. It’s where two people who like each other go out and have fun?”

Sherlock spluttered, uncertain and affronted, still not getting it, not even when his heart thundered hard enough to hurt. He made a noise of frustrated offence, “You want me to get _you_ a _date_? - Surely you don’t need any help from me to--”

John looked annoyed, but fond, talking over him, “That’s not what you’re supposed to say.”

“Yes, well...I regularly _don’t_ say what I’m apparently ‘supposed’ to say,” Sherlock retorted, feeling too hot and too breathless. He wanted to close the distance between them, needing to be sure, needing to look at him properly, and hating how far away John was, hating how he was rendered, once again, brainless by something John had done, had said.

“True,” John agreed with a chuckle. “What you were _supposed_ to say was ‘but we do that all the time’-” he took a step closer “-and then I would have said-” another step “’ _exactly_ ’.”

Sherlock swallowed and frowned and took a shaky breath, trying to think, trying to read his face, “Yes...we...we do...but…”

John sighed and waved him closer, " _Come here_."

Instantly pulled to him, like always, no matter how hard he’d tried not to be, Sherlock walked over until they stood within a few inches of each other, feet almost touching, “I fail to see how a date would be a gift if you...you say we do what is considered a date all the time, even without saying it’s a date - You told me no before. You said no. When I said it was what I was suggesting and you said no, and that you hoped not.” He couldn’t stop talking. He needed to stop talking. “So, is that...are you saying that’s changed?”

"You're an idiot," John huffed and, grasping the lapels of Sherlock's dressing gown, pulled him down and pressed his lips to Sherlock's. His entire mind, entire world, stuttered and then exploded with sensation. It was blinding, deafening, and numbing. Everything swirled in a hurricane of information, spreading out, all-encompassing, and then rushing back, all focus on John, his scent, his presence, his breath, and the feeling of his mouth pushing in, engaging, instead of staying dormant, remaining stagnant.

“So you _were_ making eyes at me?” he gasped when John disconnected their mouths and bumped their noses and brows together.

"That sounds like something Mrs Hudson would say," John smirked, though he took a deep breath as he looked at Sherlock in a way that was both the same as always and yet somehow so much more.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered with a quick nod, finding his hands clasped into the front of John’s sleep shirt. He gaped, gulped, shivered, and frowned. “I didn’t notice…”

"It doesn't matter," John said, his fingers running down Sherlock's dressing gown, pulling gently with a happy ruffle.

“But _I should have noticed_ ,” Sherlock told him, pressing their noses alongside one another. “I notice _everything_. _Especially_ about you.”

"Some things happen so gradually you don't realise they're there until they're pointed out."

“ _I do_ ,” Sherlock argued, although it obviously wasn’t true in this case, John’s body heated pyjamas warming his fingers was proof of that. He vehemently hated himself for not knowing it earlier. He’d wanted it for so long that he’d clearly convinced himself it would never happen and now he couldn’t seem to let go of John, not now that he had him, and he looked down at his fisted hands, feeling a wedge of emotion well up in his throat.

John nodded and leaned back, patting Sherlock on the shoulder, "I'm going to wash and change, then we can both go down to Mrs Hudson. How does that sound?"

“Boring,” Sherlock sighed with a small, bubbling giggle that he hadn’t expected to tumble from his throat.

“You _always_ say that,” John admonished, though his eyes were still so very soft and alluring. He pulled away with a squeeze to Sherlock’s shoulder after a moment and turned toward the kitchen. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

Sherlock watched his own fingers untangling and falling from John’s top as he moved away, “In a bit,” he breathed, waiting until John had gone before he took a deep breath, turned, and stared at his own reflection. He looked stricken and white, eyes still wide, lips parted and slightly flushed and wet from the kiss. The second kiss. John had kissed him back. After a second, alone and shaking, he was hit with niggling uncertainty and walked to the mantel to peer at his eyes up close, checking his pupils for any sign that it was all, instead, a figment of his imagination from a drugged haze. Happy with the size of them, and his memory, Sherlock walked shakily from the living room and shut himself away in his room, leaning against the door.

He could hear John running the tap in the bathroom next door, hear him brushing his teeth with the strict care he always took when it came to his mouth just before a date. Shaken, Sherlock robotically got changed, putting his pyjamas and dressing gown aside, replacing them with a suit. He stared at himself in the mirror of his wardrobe and frowned, tugging at his jacket, smoothing out his shirt, and then picking at the fluff clinging to his trousers. He was nervous. It had been quite some time since he’d been nervous to meet John, since he’d wanted to look his best. His stomach quivered and he reflectively swallowed, wishing he’d gone to the bathroom first.

John took a further ten minutes, having a quick shave before he headed upstairs, but not until he hesitated at the glass door to Sherlock’s room. When he saw John’s shadow approaching the glass Sherlock held his breath, waiting for something to happen, only for him to leave shortly after. Exhaling in a rush, Sherlock scowled, unsure if he was disappointed or relieved nothing had come of it, and looked at himself again, touching his face, ruffling a hand through his hair, and finally hanging up his gown. He took a moment to think, to calm down, to try and compose his thoughts and stop his bodily trembling, then went to wait for John in the living room, pacing and tapping the dog photo.

He came down just under five minutes later, wearing one of his less offensive jumpers and holding the present he’d wrapped up for Mrs Hudson in his hands, “Shall we go?”

“Yes. Yes, why not,” Sherlock replied, trying not to check himself in the mirror again as he went to John’s side.

“Violin?” John asked with a friendly, entertained smile.

Sherlock frowned, “Violin?” he echoed, before realisation caught up with him and he turned, flustered and hot under the collar. “Right. _Violin_. Yes. I...did say that.” He routed the case out from under the pile of music sheets it had been hidden beneath and lifted it awkwardly, almost upending the music stand beside him in the process. Sherlock fumbled to right it and then clenched his jaw, gave the case another jittery wave, and returned to John. “Violin.”

John chuckled and, after a brief moment of hesitation, leaned in to press a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, “Off we go then,” he said and headed out the door.

Shocked by the third kiss, Sherlock tripped after him as if dragged by an invisible thread, “Yes,” he wheezed, following John down the stairs, trying to stay as close as physically possible to him.

“Careful,” John said with a smirk, but only held out a hand to keep him steady. “Don’t want to fall down the stairs.”

“I _won’t_ ,” Sherlock sniped in embarrassment, hating how off balance he felt. His legs refusing to do as he told them. Body betraying him. Perhaps this had been a bad idea? The dog, their relationship change, it was a lot to deal with and he couldn’t quite choose which one needed his focus, his attention, the most.

“If you say so,” John said and finished the descent down to 221A. The smells of roasting poultry was in the air, along with the smell of fresh, warm gingerbread.

“I do say so,” Sherlock grumbled, nose in the air and stomach rumbling. “God I’m starving.”

John chuckled and raised his hand to the door, “If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought you skipped breakfast,” he said as he knocked.

“I’m always hungry for Mrs Hudson’s cooking - _Especially_ her gingerbread, mince pies, cupcakes--” Sherlock stopped short as the door came open and he was engulfed with thick sweet scented air. It was mouthwatering and Sherlock was taken aback with how much saliva built up in his mouth, across his tongue, at the aroma. How long had he not eaten for? One, two, three days?

“You’re early!” Mrs Hudson said with a delighted cry, stepping back to let them in.

“We got you something,” John said, lifting the present in his hands.

“Oh, you _shouldn’t_ have.”

“Well, _I_ didn’t,” Sherlock informed her as he made his way inside, going towards the kitchen after a greeting squeeze of Mrs Hudson’s arm. “It’s from John.”

“It’s from _both_ of us anyway,” John said as he handed it over, closing the door behind him.

“Thank you,” Mrs Hudson said. “It’s awfully heavy.”

“Not too heavy I hope?”

Sherlock found the gingerbread biscuits cooling on the kitchen table, and he could see the duck cooking away in the oven. Quickly, as nimble as he could, he took a biscuit, shoving it passed his lips and against his tongue, ignorant of the heat, and eating with a hiss and an open mouth. As he ate it, blinking away the way it pleasantly burned, like only a freshly baked sweet would, he wandered through to her living room and sat his violin case down, popping it open, then sprawled himself over the sofa.

“I got the both of you a few presents as well,” Mrs Hudson was saying as she came into the living room after him, which had been made much more festive than their own, with a large tree in the corner, tinsel wrapped around the curtain rail and over mantelpiece, and cards dotted about the room. She set her present down and wandered over to the tree, retrieving a few box shaped gifts and one or two softer ones. “There we are.”

“Let me help,” John said, but she waved him off as she put them next to her own gift.

“ _Ah_. The aforementioned ‘dog themed gifts?’” Sherlock asked around his remaining mouthful as he gave them a once over, rubbing his hands together in teasing act of glee.

“Have you been at my biscuits?” Mrs Hudson demanded.

“Mrs Hudson, it’s _Sherlock_ , of course he has,” John said as he sat next to him.

“I did nothing of the sort!” Sherlock gave her a small smile, watching her glower soften.

She sent him a warning glare but sat down in her own chair close to her present, “You’d best watch yourself young man, or there won’t be _any_ dessert!”

“You’d do no such thing, you love giving me dessert, even when I don’t deserve it,” Sherlock shot back and held out his hands, flexing his fingers impatiently. “Give me mine then.”

Mrs Hudson leaned forwards, sorting through the presents before separating them into two piles, “That one’s for you, Sherlock, and the other’s for John.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” John said. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“ _More_ socks, Mrs Hudson?” Sherlock complained as he picked one of them up, squeezing it between his palms and shooting her an annoyed, narrowed look. “They better not be _themed_ ones.”

“Stop spoiling the fun,” John said, elbowing his arm as he picked up what was undoubtedly some sort of soft toy for the dog.

“The shape, feel, and wrapping paper give it away, I’m spoiling nothing,” Sherlock retorted as he ripped it open, pulling out, as he’d correctly deduced, a rolled up pair of new socks. Luckily they were only patterned in the striped sense, and even of a material Sherlock took a moment to label as bamboo fibre. She had been listening to him after all. He smiled at them, rubbing the fabric between his fingers, squashing it in one hand. There were many benefits to bamboo socks, one of which was the luxurious nature of the fibres.

“Which is why I was so careful about your present,” John said with a reminiscent, mischievous smile as he revealed a soft yet durable duck toy. Sherlock shot him a half-hearted, grouchy glare in response, disgruntled at being so blind and out of the loop for so long.

“I hope he likes them,” Mrs Hudson said, looking at the toy. “The woman in the shop said it was good for aggressive chewers.”

“Yes, well...I doubt he’ll be overly picky,” Sherlock murmured, reaching to tear into another present. This one was a set of two stainless steel dog bowls still in their box, but Sherlock was distracted from it when John put a comforting hand on his forearm. It shot sparks through him, made his stomach flip, and stalled his mind.

“Why don’t you open yours, Mrs Hudson?” John asked.

“I can open it in a minute,” she replied, glancing at his hand with a hopeful look.

“No, do it now,” Sherlock told her, a he looked at John’s hand too and wringed his fingers together, wanting to touch, to press back into it somehow. He knew he could. Their relationship had changed, he was allowed to touch and kiss John if he wanted now. The mere thought made him dizzy.

“Don’t get pushy!” she warned, though she did pull her present closer again and started pulling at the wrapping.

Sherlock watched for a moment and then glanced again at John’s hand, focused on the weight and warmth of it, the sensation of touch through his layers of clothing. With eager eyes he traced each finger, each knuckle, lingered on the smooth, beautiful, delicate length of bone, veins, and soft, small blond hair which were only barely visible. The urge to touch was stronger than it had been before. He wanted to tuck his fingertips up John’s sleeve, wanted to lean into him, wanted to have John’s arm draped possessively across his shoulders. Wanted to taste, smell, and own every inch of him. John, however, was unaware of his internal struggles and pulled away when Mrs Hudson opened her present with a gasp. Sherlock instantly mourned the loss of John’s hand.

“Oh my lord,” she said, pushing the wrapping paper away from a new mixer.

“I thought you might want a newer model than the one you have,” John explained.

“Oh it’s _fantastic_!”

“ _Dull_ ,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Then perhaps you won’t want the cakes I make with it then?” Mrs Hudson teased as John opened a new present, revealing a pair of leather gloves.

“What happened to making things the old fashioned way? I thought you preferred that?” Sherlock mumbled.

“I do,” she replied a little sadly, “but my elbows are starting to ache something fierce if I move them too much.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” John asked, putting the gloves down.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” she said. “Just my bones getting old.”

“They aren’t that old, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock told her reaching across to take her arms in his hands, soothingly rubbing and stroking down to her elbows to give them a pat. “They’re fine. You’re fine.”

“Thank you, Sherlock,” she said as she smiled in appreciation, “but I’m not getting any younger.”

“You’ll last a while longer yet,” John said.

“You boys are so good to me.”

“John can always get you something. He’s our personal doctor, don’t forget. He can write a prescription for _anything_ you want, free of charge,” Sherlock told her dismissively, despite the fact John would not do something so unethical. With a quick glance at John, he leaned further forward with a wink at Mrs Hudson’s impish face. “I could always get you some more of those ‘herbal soothers’ too.”

“That would be _lovely_ ,” Mrs Hudson said with a bright smile.

John rolled his eyes and picket up another present, “I’m glad you like it, Mrs Hudson—A coat?” John asked, drawing Sherlock’s attention to the dog coat in his hands.

“If it’s not the right size, I still have the receipt,” Mrs Hudson said.

“Dogs don’t need coats,” Sherlock huffed as he looked it over in mild disgust. “More so a German shepherd, Mrs Hudson.”

“But he’s only a puppy,” Mrs Hudson said. “He’s still growing his fur, isn’t he?”

“No. He’ll be fine,” Sherlock told her.

“I just don’t want the poor thing to be cold.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” John said and he folded the coat up and placed it under the chew toy.

“No more coats or outfits or hats for a dog, please,” Sherlock told her, picking up his violin and bow, moving to stand beside her to give her shoulder a fond squeeze. He was thankful for her consideration of the puppy, no matter how silly it was. He was always thankful to her.

“Oh, alright then,” Mrs Hudson sighed, brushing her fingers against his as she smiled up at him.

“More cakes instead,” he said, bending to give her cheek a kiss, smiling back at her, the smile he reserved only for her. “Right then, any requests?”

“Good King Wenceslas,” Mrs Hudson said without pause.

“God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” John added.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock nodded at the both of them, “Fine. - Mrs Hudson’s choice first though,” he said, tucking the violin up under his chin, giving the bow a dramatic flicking flourish.

Sherlock played on request for the next fifteen minutes, swapping between Mrs Hudson’s and John’s requests with a splash of his own interests, at which point Mrs Hudson rose from her seat, saying she had to check on the duck. Thankful for the pause, Sherlock gave her brief shrug, trying not to show how fatigued he felt already. It seemed his transport needed to sleep.

“We’ll start the vegetables in half an hour or so,” she said as she went. “It might be an early lunch, but you want to fetch that puppy of yours as soon as possible I’m sure!”

“Yes…” Sherlock fiddled with the bow and then turned to watch her shuffle out, feeling the urge to request her company. She would love the dog too. She had agreed to allow it. He would be living in her home. She would love it as much as John and him. “Do you want to come?”

“Oh _no_ ,” the landlady said. “That’s something you boys should do on your own.”

“Orion will be living here, Mrs Hudson. - In fact, you’ll have to dogsit when we’re on a case. We won’t be able to bring him along on every case,” Sherlock told her as he idled, feeling exhaustion descending upon not only his arms but his legs, his head. He wanted to go over to rejoin John, yet he wasn’t sure if he’d stagger or wobble. He hoped not.

“Not at first anyway,” John agreed.

Sherlock shook his head, “There is not always a need for a dog.”

“No, but we can train him to work with us on some cases,” John said. “German shepherds are great trackers, and attack dogs too.”

“Yes, I _realise_ that, thank you,” Sherlock snapped in irritation, finding the thought of allowing the dog, his dog, near any danger abruptly unpleasant. He pushed a sudden influx of memories back and turned to put his violin away. “But it’s not necessary to use him _just_ because we have him. I have, in fact, worked with a dog for certain things, but only when it is especially _required_. His name is Toby. Good dog. Friendly. Smart. Fantastic tracker. Half spaniel and half lurcher. A bit clumsy, but endearingly so.”

John had approached while he was distracted and put his hand on his shoulder, almost making him jump out of surprise, “Of course, that’s all up to you,” he said. “You’ll be his main carer after all.”

Sherlock looked up at John’s face, “I don’t know if…” he trailed off and blinked, not entirely sure what he was going to say, and instead just nodded, clicking his case closed. “Yes. Of course.”

“Plenty of time to decide,” John said, giving Sherlock’s shoulder a squeeze.

“Yes. Lots of it,” Sherlock replied, looking at his hand and reaching tentatively for it, before stopping and sitting down with a sigh, happy when he didn’t sway or stumble on the way. “We can discuss it at a later date. If and when it comes up in the future.”

John sat down beside him, their knees touching and John smiled patiently at him, “Do you like parsnips?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, finding the sudden subject change abrupt but needed. He gave a quick glance down at their lightly brushing knees and pushed their legs closer together, wanting their thighs to touch at the very least. Peering at John from the corner of his eyes he grinned, trying to distract as he inched nearer. “I’m not terribly fussy, you know that.”

“What about sprouts?” John asked, his voice serious and eyebrows raised. Sherlock knew those eyebrows as much as he knew the man’s mouth. Had documented the different ways they furrowed, arched, dropped, twitched, and wiggled. “Your answer might make or break our relationship.”

Unable to wipe the grin from his face, Sherlock turned to him, “Oh _really_?”

“This is serious,” John said in his mock-serious tone.

“I’ll eat them,” Sherlock replied with a casual shrug. “I hated them as a child, of course.”

John scrutinised him but nodded a moment later, “I will accept this.”

“ _Thank goodness_ ,” Sherlock said, pretending to wipe his brow of sweat and bowing his head in modest amusement, cheeks hurting from how broad his grin had grown. He felt like an idiot and probably looked like one too. The chuckle that emerged from John’s lips was worth it though, as was the almost full body nudge.

“What are you laughing about?” Mrs Hudson asked as she re-entered the room.

“Sprouts.”

“How is the duck?” Sherlock added, glancing up at her from under his fringe to stealthily regard her joyful and expectant sweeping gaze drop to where they were now pressed from hip to knee. He could feel what was coming and tried not to rise to the bait and meet her eyes proudly.

“Browning nicely,” she replied as she settled once again. “So… you’re sitting _awfully_ close.”

Sherlock flushed and looked down, ears burning, “John and I have always sat this close when seated on sofas,” he mumbled first, before clearing his throat, making sure to avoid eye contact with them both as he tilted his head in John’s direction to watch for his reaction, to see what he would say. He was unsure if John wanted it to be made public so soon. Was unsure if even he, himself, wanted that.

John ducked his head briefly, his own smile surprisingly shy for a moment before gaining a confidence that bespoke experience. He looked up at her again and reached for Sherlock’s hand. It was so effortless, so simple, and so honest that Sherlock couldn’t help but beam at their softly grasping fingers. He could feel Mrs Hudson’s eyes on them and knew, without looking, just how delighted she was.

“ _Oh_!” Mrs Hudson cooed, and Sherlock peeked over to see her looking between them.

With the weight of John’s hand in his and the responding, cheery, soft exclamation from Mrs Hudson, something took over him and he entangled his fingers with John’s tighter in sudden need, “And we’re going on a date! A real one this time,” burst from his mouth before he could stop it.

John squeezed his hand, keeping his eyes on the overjoyed landlady, “It’s my Christmas present.”

“Oh, you… you _beautiful_ boys,” she sighed and rose to hug them both.

Sherlock gratefully hid his face against her sweet smelling neck, “You were right,” he whispered to her as she enveloped them.

“Of course I was,” she replied, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I usually am about these things.”

“Have you two been talking about me behind my back?” John asked in a stage whisper.

“Yes,” Sherlock admitted, allowing himself a few moments of indulgence in the arms of his landlady, his fingers still tightly clasped with John’s. “ _All the time_.”

“Ah, so as much as we gossip about you then,” John chuckled and Mrs Hudson pulled away to whop John on the arm.

“ _What_?” Sherlock blinked at them both, frowning at Mrs Hudson in question, feeling stupid for not realising it sooner.

“What did you think we talked about when I visited for tea?” John asked.

“That boring TV programme you both love so much,” Sherlock replied, looking between him and her and blushing. “You talked about me? What? Why? _Every_ time?—What exactly did you say? Why didn’t you _tell me_ , Mrs Hudson?”

“Well, that would have been a breach of trust,” Mrs Hudson said, heading back to her chair again.

“It wouldn’t,” John corrected carefree and joyful.

“I just didn’t want to spoil the fun then.”

“ _Fun_? You think this is fun?” Sherlock exclaimed, voice breaking, which only made the blush on his cheeks hotter. “Mrs Hudson you are an _evil_ woman. You could have told me. It would have made everything so much easier. He would have dated far less _women_ \--” John sighed as he squeezed Sherlock’s hand.

“You would have figured it out eventually,” she said. “You did, in fact. - It’s not my place.”

“What if we _hadn’t_?” Sherlock huffed, glancing at John, at the flush on his cheeks, at the small, tilted smile on his face, and felt his heart ache.

“Then I might have had to knock your heads together,” she said, reaching into the pile of torn paper for a hidden present. “Who wants to open the last one?”

“You can,” Sherlock told her, not wanting to let go of John now he had hold of him again. It was a scary feeling, and he wondered vaguely if it was bad, if other people felt the same way as he did. Was it usual? Was this what caused people to act as deluded as they do? This feeling of constant, greedy, obsessive, possessive want?

John glanced over at him in concern but smiled and nodded at Mrs Hudson, “I wrapped it _specially_ for you,” she said.

“Go ahead, Mrs Hudson,” John said, his thumb brushing up and down the back of Sherlock’s hand. It was calming, comforting, and consuming.

“Oh, alright then,” she sighed, picking at the tape. Soon enough, a lead was revealed in a deep black leather. “There we are.”

Sherlock admired it from his seat with a slow smile, “You’re spoiling him already.”

“Everyone needs a little spoiling,” Mrs Hudson countered, handing it over.

Taking it in his free hand, Sherlock tested the strength of it, bending and twisting it, inhaling the scent of genuine leather, “Thank you. I’m sure he’ll love chewing on it.”

John gave his fingers another squeeze, “Did you need any help with anything yet?”

“Hm, I suppose things could be peeled,” Mrs Hudson said, “but that won’t be necessary for a while yet. Why don’t you both have a proper look at everything. I think I might ice the cookies.”

Sherlock looked over the gifts, putting the lead amongst them and touching the rim of one of the bowls closest to him, “Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”

“You’re most welcome dear,” she said, patting his cheek lightly before heading off towards the kitchen and leaving them both on their own.

“… You good?” John asked softly, looking over at him.

“Are you going to ask after me the _entire_ day?” Sherlock criticised, aimlessly poking at the dog coat and trying not to blush more than he already had. He hated when John saw through him so easily. He prided himself on his masks he wore, the wall he’d built up, of how in control he was of his mind, his body, and so to have everything crumble and betray him, shift and break down, was almost too much to fully bear. Sherlock sneaked a glance at John and felt his irritated fear weaken at the look of his face, the colour of his eyes, the feel of his rough, coarse, working fingers in his, and quickly tried to suppress a shudder of emotion. “I’m fine…”

John smiled, one that said he didn’t believe him, but would let it slide, “It’s okay not to be.”

Sherlock glared at him and tightened his grip on John’s hand, “So you’re not okay?”

“I’m excited,” John replied, “and nervous, and a lot of other things.” He took a deep breath and rubbed Sherlock’s hand with his spare. It was grounding and strangely very arousing.

“Excited and nervous for the dog or…?” Sherlock asked dumbly, feeling incredibly dim-witted but unable to stop himself from asking, breath stolen from the warmth of John’s touch. He swallowed and then leaned their shoulders together roughly, needing more of John against him.

John jolted a little at the sudden impact, but after a confused glance his way he leaned back again, “The dog, how he’ll react to you, how you’ll react to him… having you as a partner.”

“ _Ah_ , yes. Both. Of course. That’s completely understandable, I suppose. Especially with the puppy. How he’ll react to me – _Oh God_ —He’s going to _hate_ me. Completely blank me,” Sherlock found himself rambling in a self-conscious mutter. “It makes sense. He knows _you_. He loves _you_. I’m a stranger to him. Whether you told him stories and showed him pictures or not. He doesn’t _know me_.”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John said and squeezed his knee. “Dogs _adore_ you. Orion’s going to love you, I promise.”

“And if he _doesn’t_?” Sherlock asked in a mumble.

“Well… he likes… how you smell?” John said, his eyes wandering around the room, though they ultimately landed on him again.

Frowning, Sherlock tilted his head and turned his torso to look at John with more intent, “You...took an article of my clothing with you?”

John shrugged, looking a little more uncomfortable, his shoulders straighter, his fingers tighter, “I thought it would be a good idea.”

“What did you take? I don’t recall noticing anything missing nor covered in dog hair,” Sherlock said in curiosity.

“One of your under shirts that I was going to put through the wash,” John replied. “It was one of your new ones, so I just bought another.”

Sherlock blinked and then looked away, staring at the gifts, “Oh,” he breathed.

“He’s still got it,” John said, rubbing his thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles again. “Sleeps with it I’m told.”

“He...he does?” Sherlock blinked again, shivering from John’s subtle perfect affection. “Well...that’s...that’s...good…”

“Orion’s going to _love_ you,” John said again, his voice quiet, intimate, a whisper in his ear. “It’s going to be fine.”

Sherlock wanted to kiss him again, and kiss him hard, passionately, and without pause but he reigned it in, “All right,” he conceded, unable to see any downside if the puppy knew him by smell already.

John smiled brightly back at him and pulled him close, releasing his hand only to wrap his arm around Sherlock’s back. Grateful for the open invitation and clear permission to get as close as he wanted, or rather dared, Sherlock lowered his head to John’s shoulder, watching how his Adam’s apple bobbed, how still gloriously tanned his skin looked, covered in a cluster or two of faint freckles. He hated himself for not doing anything sooner, for not being smart enough, quick enough, for not spotting the signs or perhaps not believing them. If he had known, if only he’d known, he’d have been this close, this warm, this wanted, before. Wouldn’t he?

Sherlock peeked up at the side of John’s face and frowned, not certain it would be the case. He had thought John had been interested before, yet he had shot John down, chosen work then, over everything else, though he wasn’t entirely sure John had been asking at that time. Not because John wasn’t the type to do so, because he was, Sherlock had witnessed that on more than one occasion, but because of how John had acted and how inadequate Sherlock sometimes was with social cues. As instantly attractive and appealing as John had been to him in those first moments, he himself had thought it a passing fancy, just him finding a kindred spirit. Someone who he shared something with, someone who he wanted to share something with. Someone who might even put up with him and add something to his life, instead of taking away. Finally.

“You’re thinking too much,” John muttered into his ear.

Sherlock shivered as the breathed words tickled and stroked the sensitive skin of his lobe, “I’m _always_ thinking too much. That’s what I do. I think. _Constantly_. About everything and something and nothing.”

“I know,” John said, rubbing his back. “Why not think about where you want to take me on that date?”

Sherlock jerked upright, coming close to headbutting John in the chin, “I thought Angelo’s?” he offered, trying to remember where John had taken his dates and which places he’d enjoyed, and then realised he hated remembering anything to do with them and most of the information had been deleted. Heavily and angrily deleted.

“Sounds like a good place to start,” John chuckled, his smile warm and comforting.

“With a _big_ candle. In a fancy jar,” Sherlock added, wondering if that was romantic enough. “And...uh...roses?”

“Would you be comfortable with roses?”

Sherlock shrugged, thinking about the last time he had seen roses in a murder victims back garden, smeared in brain matter, “I have nothing against roses, nor flowers in general. Many are quite pretty. The types that honey bees prefer are the ones I enjoy the most though, as I get to see...bees.”

John chuckled again, a light and playful sound, “If you want roses, then we can have roses. But you don’t have to impress me. I’m impressed by you _all_ the time when you don’t even try.”

Sherlock’s felt his face go up in a blaze of heat, “Not all the time, you’re not,” he mumbled, clearing his throat and trying to keep looking at John’s eyes, and his kind, soft, lovely smile.

“Just because I’m annoyed with you doesn’t mean I’m not impressed.”

“Even when you lecture me? Shout at me? And give me those amusingly sarcastic and rather condescending remarks?” Sherlock asked with a twitch of a smirk, despite somehow enjoying the range of emotion John often displayed. Even if it was anger, he basked in it, in the attention it provided.

“Even then,” John replied. “Even if you are a bit of a prick sometimes.”

Sherlock huffed out a laugh and nodded, “I am that. Quite often, I’ve been told.”

“Not _all_ the time,” John said, his hand moving to Sherlock’s elbow. “Most people don’t know the real you.”

“...I’m unsure if there _is_ a real me,” Sherlock snorted, though he gave John a smile, forcing his eyes to remain up and not to drift, not to linger, on his mouth and tantalising lips. “But, if there was, you would know him.”

“He’s right here in front of me,” John said, “and I hope I’ll get to see him a lot more in the future.”

Sherlock found himself nodding even before John had finished speaking, “Yes. Yes, please.”

John’s lips twitched imperceptibly higher for a fraction of a second but then all Sherlock could focus on was the way John’s eyes flicked down to his lips before he started to lean closer. Head full and heart bursting at the seams, Sherlock held his suddenly panting breath and met him halfway. He felt as if he were melting. So hot he were liquefying into a dribbling heap as they got nearer, body heat melding, nose tips touching. They kissed, once, then twice, until John carefully cupped his steady, loyal, reliable hand at Sherlock’s nape and kissed him differently, mouth supple, eager and sultry. The kiss was deeper and longer than the others, but just as tender, just as sweet, and Sherlock revelled in it, eyes rolling up in bliss.

It was soon to end though, John pulling away and resting their brows together, his calloused fingers tucking themselves into his curls, “Don’t forget to breathe.”

Promptly realising he was in fact very dizzy, was still holding that first breath, Sherlock exhaled in a rush, “Breathing...is boring,” he uttered between gasping inhalations. Did everyone feel this way? Was this what it was like for others? The fear, the want, the aching chest and spinning mind?

John hummed, brushing those dependable, safe fingers against Sherlock’s scalp and rubbed his back again, “Do you want me to get you some water?”

Automatically ready to decline him, Sherlock instead paused, thought about it and then gave a roguish grin, “I’d prefer some gingerbread actually…”

John’s eyebrow rose in the way it did when he was amused but also annoyed and he pulled away with a chuckle, “I’m sure Mrs Hudson will be bringing those in once the icing’s done.”

Sherlock grieved for the loss of his scent, breath and warmth instantly, “She may do,” he agreed. “I’d like one all the same.”

John snorted, “Orion’s not the only spoilt one,” he said and rose to his feet. “ _Only_ because it’s Christmas.”

“I deserve biscuits whether it’s Christmas or not, because _you’re_ impressed by me. I _impress_ you,” Sherlock told him smugly, happy by the statement John had provided. He already knew that he impressed John, on many occasion, as John wasn’t exactly subtle in his opinions, but to hear that he was impressed approximately all the time was quite an honour.

“ _Don’t_ get too cocky,” John said as he headed towards the kitchen. “Well, _more_ than you already are.”

“You’re _impressed_ by my cockiness!” Sherlock called out to his striking retreating figure, grinning when John playfully swivelled around to stick his fingers up at him, disappearing from sight with a grin of his own.

Alone, Sherlock leaned back and let the smile fall from his face, taking deep, slow breaths, and gripping at his own knees. He was overwhelmed by it all. By the shift, the change, in their relationship, their life, and he was abruptly incapable of stopping himself from shaking as he thought about how bad it could get, how he might lose John if he did something wrong, something that put him off. Surely there was only so much John could take and deal with? When would his patience run out? When would he give up, realise what he felt was gone, and leave? Some part of Sherlock knew this wouldn’t happen, yet there was still a piece, a sharp poking piece, that reminded him of the differences between them, of his past experiences, of the person that had come before. He had once thought of someone as a friend, had enjoyed their company, formed a solid relationship, and yet they had drifted apart. He didn’t have many friends, not like John, never had, if he lost John, he’d be alone once again.

“Get your fingers off my cookies!” Mrs Hudson squealed from the kitchen, her voice breaking through Sherlock’s reverie.

“It’s just the one!” John argued as his back appeared in the doorway.

“You’ll spoil yourself for lunch.”

“I’ll be _fine_ ,” John replied backing further into the living room.

Sherlock quickly sat back up and pressed his lips together, trying to stifle his need to beam, thoughts now scattered, “Does it have icing on it?” he asked.

John turned back to him, but he kept the biscuit hidden behind his back, his lips cocked in a mischievous manner, “It might.”

“It _better_ have icing on it,” Sherlock told him, leaning aside to try and peer around to see. Feeling childish and light-hearted.

“Or what?” John said, leaning to hide the treat.

“Or...no candle at Angelo’s,” Sherlock said at random, switching to the other side.

John swayed his hips in an almost hypnotising manner to keep the cookie out of sight, “ _Just_ the candles?”

Distracted by his movements, it took a moment longer than normal for Sherlock to register John’s words, “And roses? - And date! Yes. No _date_ _—_ Wait, no, that’s silly…”

John giggled – giggled! – and held out the icing covered biscuit, “Can’t have that, can we?”

Stretching up, Sherlock snatched at it with a smile, “ _Definitely_ not.”

John grinned and moved to sit at Sherlock’s side again, picking up the bits of wrapping paper that had been scattered on the floor and folding them up, “You’d better enjoy that; I think I’m in Mrs Hudson’s bad books now.”

“Not for long. She likes you. You’re the nice doctor who keeps the mad detective in check,” Sherlock assured him as he took a bite, holding out the remaining piece to John. “Here. Payment. Don’t say I don’t thank you.” John regarded it, his hands still full of paper, then opened his mouth. It was what couples did. What he’d done with others. What Sherlock had seen a thousands times in sappy films and TV shows. Sherlock stared at him, stomach in sudden, flipping knots, and slowly pressed the biscuit against John’s bottom lip, teeth and tongue, “Good?”

John bit into it, spilling a few crumbs on his lap and ducked his head in a futile attempt to catch them. He nodded with a hearty hum though after a moment, “’S nice.”

“Yes. _Very_ nice,” Sherlock nodded along with him and only realised he was leaning in toward him when his nose bumped into John’s cheek. He choked on an embarrassed gasp and turned away as John licked his lips, collecting the crumbs with his tongue as he looked Sherlock over. “ _Sorry._ ”

Putting the paper down under the table he resettled himself in the corner of the sofa and, for a moment, Sherlock thought he’d pushed too far already, but John, beautiful, wonderful John, opened his arms and said; “Come here then.”

Slowly, Sherlock shuffled over to him and moved tentatively close, not sure what to do with his hands, “Like... _this_?”

“Turn around,” John said softly.

“Turn...turn _around_?” Sherlock repeated and after a look at John’s comforting smile, he twisted as told. “Like this? Just...turn this way? But--”

“Just like that,” John answered when he’d turned entirely the other way. Sherlock started to look back, confused, but then John’s arms pushed their way under his, sliding against his sides, and his hands pressed flat against his chest, pulling him back until his body was leaning against John’s torso. His arms wound around him like a comforting blanket.

“ _Oh_! Oh, I see,” Sherlock whispered as he was gently adjusted, his eyes stuck on how John’s hands supported and stroked his sternum.

“Comfy?” John asked, his breath brushing his ear.

“Quite,” Sherlock told him, hating how much he quivered at their closeness, at his strong, pulsing heartbeat and trying to distract John from it by touching his knuckles, rubbing and pressing and patting. “I...thought about this often.”

John must have felt his shivering though as he gave Sherlock a squeeze and the space behind his ear a kiss, “What do you need, Sherlock?”

Sherlock clenched his toes to stop an intense shudder running through him and swallowed, glancing at the dog gifts, at the new socks, and then to the door towards the kitchen, “I...don’t _need_ anything,” he exhaled with a grimace, knowing that wasn’t true, yet not knowing what specifically he did indeed need.

“Okay,” John said, his hands a firm support against him. “Tell me if you do.”

“If I need anything, right now, it’s _you_ so...I’m...I’m good,” Sherlock stammered.

“Yeah?” John replied and Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice. “Well, I’m not going anywhere any time soon.”

Stroking up John’s hand to touch the edge of his jumper sleeve, Sherlock let himself relax into him a bit more, “Good,” he breathed. “That’s all I need.”

He felt John shift a little under him again, but this time John’s nose brushed against his scalp and Sherlock rose and fell with John’s deep, inhaling breath. It was incredibly soothing and shockingly intimate. John was taking in his scent, was breathing him in, was indulging in their closeness, in the permission to do as he pleased, as he wanted, as he needed. He didn’t say anything, he just breathed and held him and let Sherlock settle into him. Of course, Mrs Hudson soon made her reappearance, breaking the atmosphere and popping their personal, tender bubble of devotion.

“Oh!” she exclaimed when she saw them, her entire face softening.

Sherlock, after initially flinching at the noise she had made, blinked widely, trying to fight off the oncoming sleep that had crept, unbeknownst to him, over his mind and through his body in the short moments previously, and lifted his head, “Mrs Hudson,” he half slurred. “Don’t start...”

“You _precious_ boys,” she said softly, pressing her fingers to her lips before turning around, undoubtedly going to fetch her camera.

“ _John_ , make her stop,” Sherlock grumbled, though he felt an odd fluttering of both shyness, at being caught indulging in affection, and anticipation, for the photo that would come of it. Documented evidence of their change in relationship. Irrefutable proof that they had been something more, that John had held him close, smelt his hair, kissed his skin, wanted him. If John ever left, if things ever stopped, he’d have the photo, he’d have the physical memory of it.

“Mm, _no_ ,” John said, his voice also a little sluggish and sleep riddled. “I’m too comfy here.”

Letting his head go back against him, Sherlock sighed aloud, privately relishing in John’s tone vibrating through him, “She’ll frame it…”

“Maybe she should,” John said, wrapping his arms tighter about his torso. “I think I like you here.”

Sherlock’s next intake of breath was shaky with overpowering glee, “In Mrs Hudson’s living room?”

“ _Here_ , against me,” John replied. “In my arms.”

“...Ah. Uh. Yes,” Sherlock wheezed, mind tilting and scrambling to record, to store, every detail, every shift of John’s fingers, hands, arms, and head.

Just as Mrs Hudson returned John turned his nose back into his hair and inhaled, making Sherlock rise again, “Yeah,” he whispered as he exhaled and Mrs Hudson brought the camera up to take her photo, a bright, proud expression on her face.

Sherlock glanced at her as she snapped not one, not two, but three, then four photos, “Do you really need _that_ many, Mrs Hudson?” he asked lowly, while secretly wanting more. The more the better. He wanted every second of their new relationship to be documented, tangibly. He wanted to fill the wing in his Mind Palace with it all.

“I _have_ to get the perfect picture!” Mrs Hudson argued and took one more when John started to laugh.

“I hope we’ll get copies,” John said, moving out from Sherlock’s hair to kiss his cheek (just in time for another photo). It felt good, leaving his skin fizzing from the contact, and Sherlock wondered if it would feel the same way on other places, if each new kiss on a new area would continue to excite and stun him.

“...Really?” Sherlock asked, needing to make sure that John wanted the photos as much as he did. He locked eyes with Mrs Hudson as she shifted closer to them. She looked exceedingly happy, her eyes glistening, cheeks rosy, and smile only getting bigger the nearer she got to them.

“I don’t have many photos of you, you know,” John said as the camera clicked a few more times.

“You’re both _so_ photogenic,” Mrs Hudson said as she came closer still, though she had finally stopped the amateur photo shoot and was looking at the camera screen. She chuckled happily then turned it around to show them both one of the photos.

Sherlock peered at it and looked to John in the image, to his expression, and the slant of his head as he nuzzled into one dark wave of his wild hair, “John is certainly,” he responded quietly, mesmerised by the picture.

“She caught your good side too,” John said, bringing his hand up to stroke at Sherlock’s cheek. “Look. You look so… warm.”

“I have a good side?” Sherlock questioned dazedly, turning with an instinctive need to press into the touch, wallowing in the drag of John’s palm against his nose. The skin smelt of gingerbread.

There was another click and Mrs Hudson tittered in delight, “ _Oh_ you two are so sweet!”

Using John’s hand to hide his face in, Sherlock huffed, “ _Stop_ taking photos now.”

John laughed, bright and full of energy, and pulled Sherlock, twisting him with strong arms, so he could hold Sherlock properly. Sherlock’s head held protectively against his shoulder as his arms held him close to his chest. Despite what might have been an embarrassing cradling, it was glorious. He never wanted to leave, to get up and move. It felt right, perfect, to be clutched so near to John, surrounded by his heat and smell, face pushed into the soft, pleasant weave of his jumper. Sherlock was extremely thankful that John had opted to wear it. It did nothing to irritate his sensitive skin like some of the others had when he’d held them up to his cheek whilst John had been at work.

There were a few more clicks, but they soon ceased and the clank of wood made him aware that the camera being placed on the table, “I think I might make a start on those vegetables,” Mrs Hudson said. “You two stay here.”

“I said I would help--” John objected, tensing to get up, though he stopped abruptly, probably because of their landlady.

“Don’t you _dare_ move young man,” Mrs Hudson said. “I can take care of everything. You just keep your tush on that sofa.”

“Yes ma’am,” John said, and his nose brushed against Sherlock’s hair again. His lovely, warm, pressing nose.

Listening to her gentle footsteps as she left, Sherlock sighed, grateful to her beyond words, and let his eyes fall closed to focus more on sensation, on smell, on the sound of John’s breathing. He had been happy several times in his life, for different reasons, brought on by different events, different people, and he recalled them all in that moment, remembering and comparing and submerging in the memories of his family, his beloved dog, his first human friend, his first proper case, meeting Mrs Hudson, and finally, being introduced to John. If he believed, at all, in soulmates, he was sure John could be his. No one else had come as close as he had to making his life complete.

Steadily, as he gave himself over to the recollection of his first look at John with abandon, Sherlock was soothingly lulled into an odd floating slumber he was incapable of fighting out from. His limbs became heavy, head filling with busy static that made little sense, thoughts condensed into fuzzy, barely understandable circling words. He flinched a few times, he was conscious of that, jolting back to awareness at the distant sound of clattering and thumping that drifted in from the kitchen, but ultimately was pulled into the relentless wrench of the sleep he hadn’t had.

In what felt like mere seconds he was roused from the warm, soft slumber with whispers of his name and light kisses on his face, hands rubbing against his arm and fingers, and he groggily opened his eyes to the sight of a recently awakened John smiling at him less than an inch from his nose.

“...John,” Sherlock rumbled in a rush of elation, smiling back at him. “Hello…”

“Hi,” John replied, blinking sleep from his eyes also. “Lunch is ready.”

Sherlock stared at him, captivated by every movement, every pore, every thread of colour in his irises, “Lunch…” he echoed, hardly able to concentrate with John so close to him.

John’s smile only grew fonder, more captivating, and Sherlock felt his hand on his cheek,

“Time to get up, Sherlock.”

It took a while, longer than was necessary, longer than it really should, but Sherlock hauled his attention from John to the room, to the smell of food, and tried to sit up, feeling cold where their bodies separated, “I _am_ quite hungry…”

“Good,” John said, shifting under Sherlock’s legs to sit up as well, “because Mrs Hudson spent hours making it.”

“Yes, that’s usually what happens when one is cooking,” Sherlock said with a twitch of his mouth, watching John stretch his back and feeling infinitely more taken with him. Everything about John was infatuating.

John rubbed his eyes then brushed his hand through his hair, “Up we get then,” he said, pulling his leg out from under Sherlock and massaging his muscles. “After I can feel my leg again that is.”

“It was _your_ idea,” Sherlock retorted in defence as he shuffled off to the side, flexing his own legs and surging up to his feet, smoothing the kinks from his trousers, shirt and jacket.

John just rolled his eyes with that fond smile and continued to massage his leg for a few moments more before trying to stand himself. He ended up leaning on his other leg while he shook the recovering one out though and used Sherlock as an aide. It felt good to be John’s support, as it always did, and he stroked a few fingers over his knuckles with fond contentment.

“ _Come on_ boys!” Mrs Hudson called from the kitchen. “Your food’s getting cold!”

“All right, Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock shouted back at her with a brief glare, wanting the moment between John and himself to last as long as possible.

John chuckled, leaning some weight on his foot and pulling away, “Best not keep her waiting,” he said and headed towards the kitchen.

Sherlock found his hand stretching out after him and quickly shoved it at his side with a flush, glancing down to adjust his sleeves as he followed, “Right, yes, wouldn’t want that…”

John looked back at him with a smile, a limp reminiscent of the day they met making him stumble into the door frame slightly, “Would you like to cut the duck?”

“I could,” Sherlock told him, offering an elbow hopefully, “but I think it should be you.”

John looked down at the elbow with raised eyebrows, but he chuckled and slipped his arm through, “You’re a _true_ romantic.”

Sherlock straightened his back, weirdly proud of such a normally banal statement, “You clearly need my support.”

“It’s something I don’t think I’ll ever _not_ need,” John muttered, his head ducked as they walked the short distance to the table Mrs Hudson had covered in bowls of roast potatoes, parsnips and carrots, peas, sprouts, plates of stuffing, a just of steaming gravy, and the roasted duck sitting at the very end, a sharp knife ready for carving.

“You’ve _really_ outdone yourself, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said upon viewing, blinking at the amount of food and wondering, if only mildly, if they could finish most of it between the three of them.

“It’s only right to have a good Christmas dinner,” she said, smiling at the both of them. “Did I hear that John was doing the carving?”

“You did,” John replied, pulling his arm from Sherlock’s. “It smells _divine_.”

Mrs Hudson blushed happily and moved to sit at one of the places set with Christmas crackers and champagne flutes, “There’s some bucks fizz in the fridge. Sherlock, would you mind fetching it?”

Sherlock stared at her, somewhat aghast, “Buck’s fizz?” he sneered, strolling to the fridge regardless. “Do you not have anything good? Like Merlot? Or Pinot Noir? - Duck is a fatty meat that tends to need a wine with some sharpness and acidity to cut through it all.”

“It’s _Christmas_!” she responded. “You drink bucks fizz at Christmas.” The landlady looked him over and after a moment, sighed. “There might be something in the cupboard.”

Grinning, happy to have his way, Sherlock took out the buck’s fizz for her but turned to the cupboard quickly, “Christmas or not, you need to get the best out of meals, you need everything to compliment each other. The food, the wine, the sauces, the desserts.” There was a bottle of Merlot in the cupboard, a semi-decent one, probably a present from someone going by the bucks fizz, though it wasn’t quite the quality he would have liked. It would have to do though, as there was nothing else.

“He sounds like an aficionado, doesn’t he?” John asked, making Mrs Hudson giggle.

“Well excuse me for wanting to get the most out of my meal,” Sherlock told him as he opened the bottle and brought it over to pour into his glass. “Carve the duck.”

John shook his head but he did start carving slices of the duck, the steam rising in his face as he swayed and sliced, looking like a modern Viking, “Pass me your plate, Mrs Hudson.”

“Oh, yes,” the landlady said, moving the cracker from it and holding it out for John to place two nice slices of the duck.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock sighed, thrusting his plate in John’s direction with an eager smile. “Thank you, John.” John chuckled and placed the slices on it – and a little extra – before moving the cracker from his plate and setting his share on it. The duck still bore much of its meat, but that would be spared for later.

“Dig in then,” Mrs Hudson said, reaching for the plate of stuffing first.

Sitting down, Sherlock tucked his chair in and began loading his plate, pushing things into neat sections first, and then clumping them all together, taking a mouthful, trying to ignore John’s jovially enamoured expression, “ _Fantastic_ , Mrs Hudson,” he told her, giving her a quick, appreciated grin as he heaped his fork with more, feeling abruptly ravenous.

John popped the cork of the bucks fizz and poured Mrs Hudson a glass, “ _Slow down_ ,” he said in amusement. “I don’t want you to choke.”

“I _won’t_ choke. I know how to eat,” Sherlock told him around a cheekful of duck and brussel sprouts, reaching to fiddle with a napkin rather than reach for John’s sleeve, wanting to touch the exposed skin of his wrist. It was getting ridiculous how much he ached to be against John’s warmth.

John hummed and turned to his own meal and the three of them fell into silence, broken only by the clattering of cutlery against plates and their glasses being occasionally picked up and set down on the table cloth.

Sherlock glanced between the two of them and bit into a carrot, strangely not enjoying the quiet, mind too deafening, too stuffed, “Normally I hate this season, for _multiple_ reasons, but, uh, this Christmas was...was... _very_ good,” he said, clearing his throat and taking a gulp of wine. “I’ve quite enjoyed it.”

“I think you mean ‘is’,” John said after swallowing. “It’s not over just yet.”

“Right,” Sherlock nodded, mind flurrying with the knowledge of the dog, the dog that knew his scent, the dog that John had chosen, had visited, the dog that was to be theirs. “Anything could go wrong, I suppose.”

“Oh don’t be so _pessimistic_ ,” Mrs Hudson said. “I think today’s going to be _fantastic_ for you boys!”

“And what of tomorrow?” Sherlock asked her, eating another carrot.

“To quote an old movie; tomorrow is another day,” Mrs Hudson said. John snorted and had to cover his mouth with his hand.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock hummed, “Perhaps we should eat together Boxing Day too? It would be...pleasurable.”

“Bubble and squeak!” Mrs Hudson squealed happily. “With leftover stuffing and baked beans.”

“The _perfect_ Boxing Day meal,” John agreed, “though no more Gone With the Wind references.”

“That film has some very memorable quotes.”

“Even so.”

“Orion can have some,” Sherlock added, idly scooping up the gravy on his plate, just to watch it drip through his fork. “He can eat out of his new bowl.”

“So you’ll be keeping the name then?” Mrs Hudson asked between bites.

“He’s had it for a long while. Six months is effectively 10 years to him,” Sherlock told her. “It would only confuse him if we changed it.”

“And I’ve been calling him Orion for the past… well, month almost,” John said as he finished off his plate and sat back in his chair.

“That’s very thoughtful of you both,” Mrs Hudson said, looking between them.

Sherlock shrugged at her, “It’s for the best. For everyone involved. I’m not overly gifted in naming dogs,” he said, only realising his slip when it was too late and shooting up to his feet, finishing off his wine. “Dessert?”

“You probably noticed the red bowl in the fridge?” Mrs Hudson called. “Just heat it up in the microwave. Only a store bought one I’m afraid, but I made my own brandy butter, and there’s ice cream and custard as well.”

“ _Perfect_!” Sherlock told her as he did as he was bid, striding to the kitchen after another mouthful of his remaining food, scraping the plate clean. “I love ice cream and custard with Christmas pudding.”

“Let me tidy this away,” John said, and Sherlock could hear him piling all the leftover vegetables into two of the bowls.

“I can do the dishes, don’t you worry,” Mrs Hudson said, and soon enough the landlady appeared by his side carrying their empty plates. She set them on the side and reached into a cupboard for their bowls. “… Are you alright dear?”

“Yes,” Sherlock told her shortly, before turning and touching the side of her face, then her shoulder. “Thank you.”

She frowned up at him, but smiled and patted his cheek again, “You _silly_ boy,” she muttered. “There’s _nothing_ to worry about.”

“I’m not well liked, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said under his breath, glaring at the microwave. “Things only go well if I am in _control_ of them. If I...know the outcome.”

“Was our meeting something in your control?” John asked as he set some of the empty bowls down next to the plates.

Sherlock blushed and shifted aside, knocking his hip into the side roughly in the process and rebounding to then fumble against the fridge, “Well, _technically_ …” he murmured with a tilting of his head, “a little bit, yes—You wouldn’t have met me if I hadn’t have told Mike I was looking for a flatmate - Therefore I was in control of our meeting via what I chose to expose to Mike and his association with you - And you wouldn’t have accepted my offer if I hadn’t  _impressed_ you with my deductive reasoning and mutual understanding to the addiction of adrenaline, that we both crave on a daily basis…” He ignored Mrs Hudson’s rolling eyes and fiddled with his cuff. “The moment we met I felt a... _kinship_ and I knew that you’d take me up on the flat share, that you’d come with me to a crime scene, that you’d rid yourself of your limp during, and that you would be of a big help to me.” He waved his hand and gave a loose, casual unconcerned shrug. “Yes, I didn’t know Mike would bring you to me, and yes there was a small chance you would have not turned up at the flat at all, and yes you did surprise me, _immensely_ , however it was still all very controlled. What I said, what I did, what I allowed to show. – Up to a point.”

“So you knew some of the outcome before you even talked to me, did you?” John chuckled. “I remember you acting similarly to as you are now when I first came to the flat. Why did you want to impress me, Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson looked between them then wandered back to the table to finish collecting the remains of their lunch.

“To...to keep you,” Sherlock told him, ears burning as he heard the words aloud, “Keep you on as a _flatmate_ , as an assistant. - I needed both. You were well suited for both. I had to make sure that you were at least a tiny bit keen—Granted it doesn’t always work out fairly well. I did tell you that I normally get told to ‘piss off,’ but...you....you _didn’t_ do that. You barely flinched at Bart’s. Just looked stunned and curious and...interested.”

John hummed and stepped closer, slowly rising onto his toes and pressing closer before their lips met in a brief, soft, loving kiss, “I’m glad you did.”

“I’m...not in control of what has come after, of course,” Sherlock whispered, gazing into John’s eyes and swaying toward him, gravitating in his direction to have their noses nudge, his fringe tickle John’s expressive forehead. “I might have been in some control of the start, of our meeting and partnering, but after that…” He shrugged and gestured loosely. “Sometimes the glamour of things, the excitement, the rush, the _intrigue_ , fades. I have never known when enough will be enough. When you might find you actually don’t like me at _all_ or that the addictive feeling you’ve felt has waned. Too much of a good thing…can be _detrimental_.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock,” John told him, his hands brushing down Sherlock’s arms from his elbows and catching Sherlock’s fingers in his own. “You are the _best_ thing that could have happened to me after the war, and you _continue_ to be.”

For a moment of unknown length, Sherlock’s mind and vision blanked at John’s words, and he gaped at him, shaking, “You really...think so?”

“I _know_ so,” John replied, worry seeping into his honest smile. “Come on, let’s sit you down. I’ll sort out the dessert.”

“No. I...I can do it,” Sherlock assured him, lifting a hand to touch John’s face and stroke the edge of his ear, needing to ground himself but finding him forever floating high on the flow of adoration he felt for John.

“Then let me help,” John said, leaning into the touch.

“You are too good for me, you know. I don’t deserve anyone like you,” Sherlock whispered, unaware he’d said the sentence out loud until he watched the response play out over John’s face. He followed it with his fingertips and then frowned, looking away and jumping when the microwave beeped. “I should see to that, but, John, I--”

His face was pulled back, John’s fingers touching his cheek then curling behind his neck as those awe filled eyes looked between his. And then their lips met again, this time harder, fiercer and more possessive, and John’s arms wrapped around his neck to keep him close. Sherlock’s legs buckled and he stumbled into the surge, the pull of passion, clutching at John’s shoulders with a heady gasp. The difference in this kiss from the last was monumental and beyond description. It shot liquid fire through Sherlock’s veins, brought sweat to his brow, to his chest, to his back, and awoke a spiking jolt of shameless desire in his pelvis and chest. He kissed back, gripping at the soft, yielding material of John’s jumper, pulling it out of shape with rigid, clawing fingers, and screwed his eyes shut against the deluge of information.

They tripped when John rocked up into him with a muffled grunt and tilted the fridge, then crashed sideways together into the worktop. It jolted Sherlock’s hip with a twinge of discomfort, yet it only made John’s kisses, his hands and hot breath, all the more stimulating, and Sherlock drooped wantonly, letting himself be manhandled. A whimper escaped him when John sandwiched him into a corner, an embarrassing sound that Sherlock knew John had heard, judging by his low, pleased hum, and one he’d deny ever came from him. The desire seeped outward to encapsulate more of his body the longer they kissed and grappled shakily with one another, and Sherlock shuddered, feeling light-headed, when he felt himself stir in his trousers, becoming confined against the back of his zip with a rush of blood.

“Oh, _goodness_!” came Mrs Hudson’s shrill, unexpected, unwanted cry and John pulled away shyly, leaving Sherlock’s mouth throbbing. Mrs Hudson stood in the doorway, bowls of cooling vegetables covered in cling film in hand as she looked between them. “I can come back.”

John chuckled and shook his head, “Sorry, Mrs Hudson,” he said, pressing his brow against Sherlock’s shoulder, his arms still wrapped around Sherlock’s neck.

The fact they were still in Mrs Hudson’s kitchen had almost been lost to Sherlock and he flushed, gentling his grip on John to smooth the jumper back into place, “Um. Dessert is...almost done,” he told her with a croaking, ragged voice.

“Yes, thank you dears,” she said, setting the bowls on the side with a knowing smile. “Don’t forget to bring the ice cream and custard!” With that she disappeared back into the dining room again.

“… You deserve so much,” John muttered after a moment, still leaning into him, fingers combing and drifting up into Sherlock’s hair.

Huffing, not sure he believed him, Sherlock curled his arms around John’s waist for a tentative embrace, “You can do the custard.”

“Yes sir,” John said, and placed a kiss to Sherlock’s neck before he moved away to make the sauce, leaving a scorching brand that made Sherlock’s core quiver.

Shivering, Sherlock watched him for a second under his brows, and then turned to take the red bowl out of the microwave, searching for the brandy butter, trying to calm his lusting body down, “I suppose we can take Orion's new lead with us when we leave.”

“Good idea,” John said, getting a plate out of the cupboard so Sherlock could upend the pudding. “They’d probably provide one, but he should get used to what he’ll have on a daily basis.”

“Tell me what he knows. What training has he had?” Sherlock questioned.

“Well, he knows he has to go to the bathroom in the proper place and not all over the floor,” John told him, setting the timer on the microwave and leaning against the side as the custard rotated inside. “He knows the command ‘sit’ and ‘stop’, and… well, ‘fetch’. Not much else though I don’t think.”

“Clever boy then,” Sherlock smiled wistfully as he thudded the pudding onto the middle of the plate with relative ease.

“He’s _very_ energetic,” John continued, “always exploring the garden they allow the dogs to run around in. He’s run off only to come back covered in mud a time or two.”

Sherlock felt his throat close up, flashes of fractured, painful memories battling for dominance, and hummed, “Obviously. German Shepherds are working dogs that were originally developed for herding sheep. Now, of course, they are the preferred breed for search and rescue, the police, the military, disability assistance and so on and so forth. They are a quite strong, intelligent breed. Very active and curious. Protective too.”

John looked over at him with another flash of worry, having noticed Sherlock’s odd hitching hesitation, but inclined his head, "I used to work with them while on tour sometimes. _Beautiful_ things."

Nodding in reply, Sherlock shot him a quick smile, “Yes. Yes, they are.”

John smiled with a look of understanding and warmth, and Sherlock thought he was going to come closer again, kiss him, but then the microwave beeped and he turned around, "Do you want to get the ice cream?"

Opening the freezer, Sherlock bent down to open one shelf, then another, before finally finding the tub of vanilla ice cream, annoyed with how often Mrs Hudson changed its location, “Here,” he said, plopping it down and shutting the freezer door. “And here is that brandy butter.”

"Brilliant," John hummed, taking the jug of custard and tub of ice cream in hand. "After you."

“I prefer mint ice cream,” Sherlock complained as he picked up the plate with the pudding, giving it a small sniff.

"You like vanilla though," John said, giving him a friendly nudge.

Sherlock sighed, unable to deny it, “But I _prefer_ mint,” he murmured, taking the pudding over to the dining table with an over dramatic flourish, merely for Mrs Hudson’s amusement.

Mrs Hudson beamed and applauded and John set the ice cream and custard down to the side, "It turned out _perfectly_!"

“It’s all right,” Sherlock mumbled nonchalantly, shooting her a small, curling grin and bending to kiss her temple. “Get some mint ice cream in.”

"You spoilt boy," she said, batting at his arm but laughing all the same. "Let me serve everyone."

“I’ll do it,” Sherlock told her, patting her slender shoulder. “Rest those elbows of yours.” She smiled at him and gave his forearm a squeeze.

"I'll do the ice cream," John said, collecting the scoop Mrs Hudson had provided.

“I’d like three scoops,” Sherlock told him as he cut into the pudding, making sure each slice was the same, or as close as he could manage giving his concentration being split, being taken, by a hovering, lovely smelling, fondly smiling John.

"Alright then," John said, scooping out three healthy sized curls and placing them atop the steaming pudding in the bowl Sherlock held out to him. "Mrs Hudson?"

"Just one, thank you," the landlady said, and he dutifully complied before setting two in his own bowl.

“Custard,” Sherlock eagerly ordered, waving his bowl. “ _Lots_ of it.”

"Don't be lazy," John admonished, pushing the bowl away. "It's right _there_."

“Then give me some,” Sherlock said, not able to resist the normal routine.

"You're perfectly capable of pouring it _yourself_." Sherlock could see the corner of John's lips rising. Lips he was going to be dreaming and fantasising about.

“Yes, I am,” Sherlock replied, beginning to slowly, playfully, swoop the bowl back and forth in front of John’s face with an arched eyebrow. He liked playing this game with him. Liked asking for his phone or a pen, when it was right next to him. Liked knowing John would end up getting them for him anyway.

"No fighting now," Mrs Hudson said as she helped herself to some of the brandy butter.

After another second or so of John staring him down, Sherlock huffed, glanced skyward with exaggerated frustration and then wiggled his bowl, admitting defeat, “ _Please_ can I have lots of custard?” John pursed his sublime lips as he put on a show of thinking about it, but then picked up the jug and poured custard all over Sherlock's dessert. Grinning widely, Sherlock took a chunk of brand butter to plop on top and then sat down to tuck into his dessert. “Finally.”

"Cheeky sod," John muttered fondly and turned to his own food.

“As much as I loved the main course, dessert is always my favourite,” he said into the companionable silence that followed, still somehow not liking the quiet too much. It left him time to think. Thinking about John, about their dog, about the future with both.

"You need the sugar with all that energy you burn," Mrs Hudson said. "You don't eat enough."

Sherlock sighed, “Don’t _you_ start too—I eat just fine!”

"You have to be _reminded_ on a daily basis," John said pointedly.

“You’re exaggerating,” Sherlock groused around a mouthful of pudding, ice cream and custard.

John shrugged, "Not by much."

“I eat breakfast. I eat lunch. I eat dinner. - Unfortunately I _do_ have to fuel my transport from time to time.”

"You should eat _more_ ," John told him with a stern wave of his spoon. "You'll set a bad example for Orion."

Sherlock’s heart seized on a mixture of emotions, some of which were too entangled to separate, “I’m quite positive he will eat whatever you give him whether I am eating or not.” John hummed, taking another bite and leaning closer, and Sherlock found he was already in the process of leaning in toward him in response. “Dogs _like_ to eat. Can eat virtually continuously, if they’re over zealous with the vast amount you offer. You need to make sure not to overfeed him. Make sure he doesn’t eat too much.”

"We'll have to make sure we know who's feeding him then, or we might overdo it," he replied, tilting his head to the side as they leaned closer still.

" _Boys_..." Mrs Hudson sighed with a perspective, meaningful look.

Sherlock blinked at her innocently, “What?”

“As brilliant as it is that you’ve both _finally_ come to your senses,” she said, wagging her spoon, “could you not do it over dessert?”

Blushing, Sherlock reclined back in his chair, stirring custard and ice cream together in a swishing, sloppy swirl, “Do _what_? - Looking after a dog is a huge responsibility. We have to discuss things,” he uttered, glancing briefly at John to find his lips tilted in a mischievous way.

“And attempting to snog each other senseless over my table?” she drawled, causing John to choke on his pudding.

“We were _talking_!” Sherlock spluttered, slumping down. “The...kitchen was an...oversight…” Mrs Hudson hummed, not believing him for a second, and Sherlock inched further into the bottom of his chair.

“We’ll be out of your hair shortly, Mrs Hudson,” John said, his voice a little rough. “We’ll have to leave fairly soon if we want to get to the shelter when it opens.”

Sherlock shifted, hating how that made him feel, and alternated to hunch over the table, taking several more mouthfuls of pudding, brandy butter, custard and melting ice cream. He was excited, yet terrified. He was overjoyed, yet utterly guilt-ridden. It was the best present, the best surprise, and yet he still felt uneasy with meeting the puppy. John sent him that worried gaze that seemed to have been making too many appearances today but continued to eat his dessert, though there wasn’t much left.

“I bet you’re all _very_ excited about it,” the landlady said, seemingly oblivious to the trouble.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, flashing a shaky, ghost of a smile. “I love dogs.”

This time she definitely noticed, and she looked over at him in concern, “Everything alright, dear?”

“Need more custard,” Sherlock told her and reached for the jug, pouring a large gush of it over his remaining piece of pudding.

He saw John and Mrs Hudson sharing a look from his peripheral, but then John shook his head, scooping up the last of his pudding, “You really outdid yourself, Mrs Hudson,” he said. “Thank you so much for lunch.”

“It’s no problem at all, John,” she replied, though the happiness in her voice sounded slightly forced. “Thank you so much for the mixer.”

Inwardly grimacing, Sherlock sighed and took his time with his own bowl, scraping it clean with the side of his spoon, then lifting it to lick the last of the custard up from the edges. Some, inevitably, smeared up the tip of his nose and so he instead resorted to using his fingers, only realising they were both staring at him, thankfully in mirth, when he picked the spoon up to lap at too. John chuckled in good humour and Mrs Hudson pulled her handkerchief out with a sigh.

“ _Honestly_.” She reached out towards Sherlock to clean up the mess he’d made of himself.

“You should be flattered,” he told her, allowing her mothering without complaint and a wrinkle of his nose. He felt like a child again. He remembered all the moments where his own mother would wipe his face, ridding his nose, his chin, his cheeks of mud, food, suds, and the sticky residue of sweets. All the moments where Mycroft would tend to him, moping blood and vomit from his clammy skin using his silly, fancy, initial embroidered handkerchiefs. “It’s not often that I divert to such tactics to consume every last drop.”

“You’re _such_ a messy eater sometimes,” the landlady said as she finished, only to swipe at a curl that had fallen into his face. It bounced against his temple, rebounding to tickle him. “Crackers?”

Sherlock hummed in agreement, both in jest and answer, and reached for his, holding it out to her, “Of course, Mrs Hudson.”

“Let’s do them _all_ at once,” she suggested and held hers out towards John,

John grinned and caught the other end, holding his own towards Sherlock, “On three?”

Taking a light clasp of it, Sherlock rolled his eyes, “One...”

“Two…” Mrs Hudson continued.

“ _Three_!” John pulled, Mrs Hudson pulled, and the dining room was filled with three loud pops. Sherlock ended up holding two of the crackers victoriously and Mrs Hudson the third.

“I win,” Sherlock gloated as he poured his prizes out onto the table, finding a wooden puzzle and a strange red fortune telling fish. The puzzle looked interesting, if a little basic, and he leaned back with it, taking it apart to put back together again.

“I got a tiny mirror,” Mrs Hudson said, looking at her prize.

“Well I got the best Christmas ever,” John said as he collected the bowls. “I’ll call a taxi in a few minutes.” As he headed towards the kitchen he planted a kiss on Sherlock’s head and gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze. The touches zipped and sparkled through him like fireworks. Sherlock couldn’t help watching him leave, stupidly pining for him regardless of the short distance.

When he was able to tear his gaze away, he found Mrs Hudson broadly grinning, “ _What_?” he mumbled defensively.

“Oh, nothing,” she said, focusing on her little plastic mirror. “I’m just glad you’re _finally_ being so open.”

Frowning, Sherlock glared at the puzzle in his hands, not exactly pleased he was bring so easy to read, though Mrs Hudson had always been one to see things about him others didn’t, “Things haven’t changed _that_ spectacularly,” he muttered, knowing it to be vastly untrue.

“But you _are_ watching him more,” she said, setting the mirror down. “And you’re letting him catch you.”

“Am I?” Sherlock asked, suddenly self-conscious. Was he?

“You’re not so quick to hide it any more. I think it’s sweet.”

Sherlock pulled a face, making sure she saw it, and then glanced at the kitchen quickly, “Does he?”

“I don’t think he would have been making those same eyes at you if he didn’t,” Mrs Hudson said as John came back into the room.

“… Have I missed something?” he asked.

“You can have my fortune telling fish,” Sherlock told him with a nod at it with a smile. “Don’t want you feeling left out.”

John looked at it, then picked it up between two fingers, and took it from it’s plastic covering it had been contained within, “How does it tell your fortune exactly?”

“No idea,” Sherlock snorted, solving his wooden puzzle for the fourth time and then slipping it into his pocket.

John hummed and placed it on his palm. The fish then started to curl up until it was nothing more than a coil on his hand. “… _Weird_.”

“It means you’re _passionate_ ,” Mrs Hudson said with a smirk after glancing at the small instructions left inside the covering.

“Passionate about what?” Sherlock asked with a frown, extending his hand, palm up in silent demand.

“I suspect it might be about a certain someone in this room,” Mrs Hudson replied as John dropped the curled fish onto his palm.

Almost instantly, before Sherlock had time to flush and look at John, the fish uncoiled, the head and tail moving, curling and releasing in tiny movements, “What does _that_ mean?”

“Oh!” Mrs Hudson cooed.

“Um, Mrs Hudson?” John asked.

“No, I can’t say.”

“What? _Why_?” Sherlock questioned, looking at the silly, thin plastic fish and picking it up between his fingers to lay it on his palm again. The same thing happened, the same movement of the head and tail, and he huffed, grabbing for John’s hand to put it back down on his palm.

As before it curled up completely into the tight coil, “Why can you say what it means for me and not what it does for Sherlock?”

“It’s personal,” she replied, quickly stuffing the instructions away. “Now, why don’t you call that taxi? They’re sure to be expensive today.”

“I know, Mrs Hudson,” John said and dropped the fish back on the table, where it straightened out again.

Sherlock looked between them and picked the fish up, putting it on his hand again as he got up, “ _Personal_?” he repeated with a confused sniff, watching it wave its head and tail once more. Abruptly interested in such a simple concept, finding the results strangely quite compelling, Sherlock took it into the living room as he picked up the socks Mrs Hudson had bought him.

“May I use your phone?” John asked in the kitchen.

“Of course, dear,” Mrs Hudson replied. “There should be some numbers in the note book.”

“Thanks.”

Putting the annoying fish to one side, Sherlock pulled on his new socks, happy with how they felt on his feet, and not at all minding the striped pattern, “Get me more socks like this, Mrs Hudson,” he called over at her.

“Not until your birthday, young man,” she said as she entered the room. He could just hear John using the phone, but he kept his voice low so Sherlock couldn’t hear what he was saying.

Suspicious, Sherlock craned his neck and tried to both read his lips and strain his senses for more information, “Obviously,” he replied to Mrs Hudson in a whisper. “I wasn’t expecting them right this moment...”

“Doctor John Watson,” John was saying into the phone. “And how long-? Ten minutes? _Fantastic_. Thank you so much. – What? Oh, yes. Yes, that’s right. Okay then. Thanks again. Merry Christmas!” With that he put the phone down with a satisfied sigh and headed into the living room. “Ten minutes.”

“So soon?” Mrs Hudson said in surprise. John just shrugged and smirked.

Feeling shaky, Sherlock rubbed at the fabric of his socks and stood up, taking the fish with him to fiddle with, “I’ll...get my shoes and coat,” he told him, stomach turning over. “Don’t forget the lead.”

“I should do the same,” John said, putting the bowls back in their box so he could carry everything better. “Thank you so much for everything Mrs Hudson.” He kissed her on the cheek. “You’ve really made this Christmas _terrific_.”

“Oh, you,” she said, batting him on the shoulder. “Off you go now, before I keep you here for the rest of the day. - Wrap up warm!”

“The invitation is still open for you to come with us, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock threw over his shoulder as he snagged up the two paper Christmas hats and jokes on his way out.

“No, no,” she said with a wave of her hand. “You two go, I’ll make some more cookies. Perhaps with this new mixer!”

Sherlock turned just on the threshold of her flat doorway, “Put on _more_ icing this time,” he told her, backing out into the hallway and twisting for the stairs.

“I’ll do what I please with my cookies _thank you_!”

“Merry Christmas, Mrs Hudson!” John called back to her and shut the door behind him, hefting their gifts as he followed behind Sherlock. A familiar, warm, welcome presence at his back.

“She’ll add more icing,” Sherlock told him in a stage whisper, peering over his shoulder and almost missing a step at the fondly amused and loving expression on John’s face.

“She usually does,” John replied with a chuckle. “Now come on, we don’t have long before the taxi arrives.”

“Yes, yes. Don’t have to rush me. I only need my shoes and coat,” Sherlock muttered stalling only for a moment on the landing, before pushing into the living room and putting down the paper hats, jokes, and the fish, staring at the dog photo that was still out on display.

John deposited their gifts on the table, unpacking the bowls again, “We should put some newspaper out, just for now.”

“Mm?-- _A_ _h_. Yes. Yes, fine,” Sherlock told him and grabbed for the nearest pile of newspapers, shifting through them, then giving out a crushed bundle. “Here. These ones. The rest I need.”

John accepted it and straightened some out, putting them on the floor in the corner of the kitchen and setting one of the bowls down, the other he filled with water before setting it next to the first, “There we are.”

“Perfect,” Sherlock replied as he slipped on his shoes and dove quickly for his scarf, gloves, and coat, hiding behind the turned up collar. He was nervous. Stupidly nervous. Ridiculously stupidly nervous.

“ _Hey_ ," John said, coming over to wind his arms around him from behind. “I’ve got you.”

“It’s cold outside,” Sherlock told him, talking into the soft curve of his scarf. “I’m just wrapping up, as ordered.”

“I know,” John replied, resting his head on the back of Sherlock’s covered neck and straightened up collar.

John’s intimate company was a welcome reprieve, even if it sent his heart hammering, and he tipped back into him, “Do you...think he has any concept of what is going to happen today?” he asked fruitlessly, obtusely.

“He might,” John replied with a wispy, homely laugh. “I told him I’d be taking him home a few times, but I don’t know how much he understands yet.”

“...Yes,” Sherlock breathed, feeling stupider by the second. Why did he even ask? Of course the dog didn’t know what was happening.

John gave his torso a squeeze, “He will _soon_ at any rate. I know you’ll take good care of him.”

“Don’t you mean ‘ _we_ ’ will take good care of him?” Sherlock corrected, shifting and turning in John’s arms, glad he was quick to allow and compensate for it, turning his face up. Sherlock gave him an awkward smile and patted his arms, curling his fingers into the creases of his elbows. “I know you...did this for me, but he is yours too. In fact, he was yours first. He met you first. Loved you first.”

“True,” John said, “but he’ll spend more time with you, he’ll _sleep_ with you, you’ll take him on more walks and play with him when I’m at work… He’s going to love you more than me I think.”

“ _Impossible_ ,” Sherlock snorted, bending his head down so his fringe hid his gaze and tickled John’s brow.

“Nothing’s impossible,” John said raising his chin so their noses touched. “Just… highly improbable.”

Laughing, Sherlock pushed closer, bathing in John’s affection, inhaling him deep, and closing his eyes, “Highly improbable then…”

John closed that gap between their lips to kiss him once more. Getting to have such a thing, to have John’s mouth on his, even in a light, whispering brush, was something he knew he’d not get used to for a long while, something he’d probably never bore of. John was anything but boring after all. Sherlock lifted his hands, which were annoyingly trembling again, to cradle his head and dropped a kiss of his own, in thanks, in a plea for him to never stop.

Time passed as John’s lips moved against his, as his hands moved over his back, as his fingers touched at his nape through the collar, but all too soon John pulled back with a soft gasp, “You steal my breath away.”

“Ditto,” Sherlock breathed, finding his chest heaving and his head dizzy.

John grinned and stole another quick peck before pulling away completely and heading to his chair where his shoes were hidden, “I think I might wear those gloves Mrs Hudson bought me.”

“Yes. Might as well put them to use,” Sherlock replied, leaning against the wall to rein in his composure, face flushed, heart hammering. Everything about John was exhilarating.

“They have a soft lining,” John said as he pulled his shoes on. “They’re better than the ones I have at the moment.”

Smiling at him, Sherlock reclined his head back to the wall too, enjoying the way John flexibly bent to tie his laces, “That’s good...”

John glanced back at him and smirked, “You look a little distracted.”

“Well, you can be a _constant_ distraction,” he murmured, riveted by the flex and tug of John’s fingers, and how he straightened up with a rolling bunch of his shoulders.

John hummed and rose steadily to his feet, stuffing his wallet in his pocket before wandering slowly over to Sherlock again, “A good distraction?”

“Hm...Depends on the situation,” Sherlock replied and dropped his gaze, pushing off the wall. “For _this_ situation...yes. It’s a _very good_ distraction.”

“That’s good,” John said, tugging a little on Sherlock’s lapels. “You’re quite the distraction yourself.”

Rocking forward into it, into John, Sherlock let their brows touch, breathing in John’s next exhale, “That’s also good,” he told him.

John hummed and shifted his head so their cheeks were pressed together and Sherlock could feel his breath against his ear, the heat of his cheek, smell his scent, while John’s arms wound around him, pulling him closer, “We have _so_ much time to make up for.”

Nodding, just enough that their skin rubbed, some stubble John had missed scraping pleasurably against him, Sherlock reached up to grip at the soft, comfortable, gorgeous jumper, “I...didn’t...I didn’t know _how_ to…” he tried, trying to find the best way to word his heartbroken woes during their time living together. How he had flared bright like a beacon with jealousy and upset each time John had smiled at a woman, dated one, left him for one. Leaving him to mope, alone, in the flat, surrounded by their belongings, their life. He thought of all the subtle touches between them and all the times it had made his pulse skip. There had been times he’d wanted to tell John so badly it had pained him. Times he’d been so enraged and agitated, that he had almost let it slip. Though then, as now, he been afraid of losing him, losing what they had, and therefore had vowed to enjoy what he could until it inevitably left. “Perhaps you should have bought me a dog sooner?”

John chuckled quietly against him, “Perhaps,” he agreed. “It felt like something that needed to be done for Christmas though.”

“It certainly made Christmas worth while for me,” Sherlock told him, letting his eyes close to focus on John being so near to him.

John hummed again, and Sherlock could feel it through his nose and cheek and arms, every part of him that was touching him, “… I should put my coat on.”

“A minute or two more,” Sherlock asked, almost begged, stroking the jumper between his fingers. “ _Please_.”

“Alright,” John said as he pressed his cheek further into Sherlock’s. “I can wait.”

“We have time,” Sherlock said in agreement, savouring each millisecond that passed them by, surrounded by John. “I _am_ happy, John. About Orion.”

“I know,” John replied with a squeeze of his arms. “The kiss might have given me a clue.”

“Yes,” Sherlock snorted, feeling mortified for his slip up all over again, even if he also shuddered at the memory of it. He wasn’t going to forget the first touch of their mouths. It was embedded in his mind. Carved in, deep and everlasting.

“I’m sorry I didn’t react,” John sighed. “I was… I didn’t _expect_ you to kiss me.”

“I didn’t expect _to_ kiss you,” Sherlock pointed out in return, adjusting his stance with a sway of his hips, finding the way John shifted with him blissfully marvellous. He wanted to dance with him. Wanted to cling and push and roll and dance. “It just... _happened_.”

“I’m glad it did,” John all but whispered. “… I think I might have said that already.”

“In this case, I don’t mind repetition,” Sherlock told him, turning to slide the tip of his nose against John’s earlobe.

“I’d certainly like to repeat a few things we’ve done today,” John said in a guttural provocative tone, turning his head so their noses touched.

Sherlock kissed the corner of John’s mouth, giving in to his spiking urges, to his body’s demands, and enclosed John in a hug, hiding against the crook of his neck, “I’m ready to go now…”

“Okay,” John said, rubbing small circles into his back. “Let me get my coat?”

Pulling back, Sherlock shot John a smile, “Of course,” he told him, stepping away and gathering the dog papers to put neatly on the mantel. He chose the space near the skull and then gave the hat covered cranium a pat.

Meanwhile, John shrugged his coat on and retrieved his phone from where he’d left it plugged into the wall by their table, then pulled on his gloves, “Should I take the lead?”

“Yes.” Picking the leather lead up, he again tested its strength and durability, and wandered to John’s side, making sure to stand closer than ever. As close as he’d always wanted.

John grinned, almost resting into him when he took it, then stood on his toes to kiss Sherlock’s nose, “Come on then,” he said and headed out the door with a giggle.

Sherlock, tickled by John’s charm, found himself grinning back as he followed, bumping his head gently into the back of John’s, nosing the hair there, “I’ll pay the cab fare.”

“Oh _really_?” John asked in amusement. “That’s a surprise.”

“I do occasionally pay,” Sherlock said in mock offence. “And I let you use my card. _A lot_.”

“You do,” John conceded with a bob of his head only to look towards the front door when a car horn sounded. “That would be them.”

Sherlock lingered at the bottom of the stairs as John opened the door and stepped out, “Yes…” he breathed to himself, distant barking echoing through his head as he took a few breaths and pushed himself onward, locking up and sliding in beside John.

The taxi drove on without John having to say a word, and, after a few moments, John reached out to take his hand, “I had a dog once.”

“Well, it’s not an uncommon pet,” Sherlock replied, looking at his gloved hand and squeezing firmly in silent appreciation. “What breed?”

“He was a beagle,” John replied. “Energetic little thing. He was called Gladstone.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him, “After the Gladstone bag?”

“I don’t know,” John shrugged. “My dad named him, so it might have been, though I know Gladstone was the name of one of our Prime Ministers.”

“Beagles are awfully good at tracking,” Sherlock told him, stroking at his knuckles and tilting his head. “Were you thinking about that breed of dog when you thought of adding one to our household?”

“It was an idea, yes,” John said, “but then I met Orion and I couldn’t choose anyone else.”

Sherlock nodded in understanding, “Did you want to change his name when you learned of it?”

“I thought it suited him,” John replied with an honest smile. “He was always so happy when someone said it when I visited.”

“I don’t mind it. Orion was a huntsman from Greek mythology, yes? Though he owned dogs too, if I remember correctly,” Sherlock mumbled.

“So we’re the reverse of Orion and his dogs,” John said with a grin. “Orion and his humans.”

Sherlock returned the grin, “Yes, indeed we are.”

John’s grin softened into a smile, “I didn’t know you knew Greek mythology.”

“I know a little,” Sherlock admitted to him, resting their shoulders together. “My knowledge is miniscule. It has only come up once, in a case about alleged stolen ancient pottery, and since then, nothing.”

“But you decided to keep hold of the information you did have, just in case.”

“Yes. I tend to retain something when it’s been linked with a case of some kind, either in my head or in physical literature. You never know when there will be another museum robbery,” Sherlock replied with a hopeful glance.

“Not quite a locked room case though, is it?” John smirked.

“Definitely not,” Sherlock laughed, wanting to kiss him again. He wished they could be kissing all the time.

“Though I suppose they have a lot of security in places like that,” John mused, glancing out the window.

“Doesn’t mean much,” Sherlock said, leaning away and dropping his head back on the seat. “Do you miss him? Gladstone?”

“Sometimes,” John muttered, his own thumb rubbing at the back of Sherlock’s hand now. “I was nine when they had to put him down. I didn’t understand it for a while, and I kept thinking he’d come back… There are a lot of fond memories I treasure, but he was an old dog in the end.”

Sherlock swallowed and nodded, his heart aching and the echoes of the past swarming his head, “I understood…” he uttered. “I was there. Not good to leave a dog when they are put to sleep. They get scared. Look for you. Whine. It’s... not pleasant.”

He saw John turn to him from the corner of his eye, and for a moment he thought he saw pity, but then John’s arms were pulling him close, his fingers holding his head, his mouth at his ear, “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, it...it’s fine that you did,” Sherlock told him, feeling his eyes well with a burn of tears. He felt pathetic and small and vulnerable. Felt young once more. Recalling with clarity how he’d wailed against his brother’s chest. “It was years ago. 29 years to be exact.”

“That doesn’t make it any less painful sometimes,” John said, his fingertips brushing at his scalp.

Sherlock grit his teeth, “No…” he confessed. “It doesn’t.”

John rubbed at his back and pressed a kiss to his neck, “I’m here for you, in whatever capacity you need. Just say the word.”

“I know, John,” Sherlock whispered and tried to fight his gathering tears, hating his body’s reactions, hating the raw emotional wound that never seemed to heal. “Orion _isn’t_ a replacement.”

“That’s right,” John muttered, kissing his cheek this time.

“Could never replace him.” Sherlock remained against John, hiding his wet gaze and contorted mouth, until most of the residual pain and anguish had withdrawn, leaving him exhausted and generally bleak, “Thank you…”

“Any time,” John replied. “ _Seriously_ , if you ever feel like this again, just tell me.”

“I predominantly feel morose,” Sherlock grumbled.

“… Do you want me to kiss it better?”

Sherlock blinked, startled, and then bit down on the blossoming grin, heart picking up the pace, skin heating, hair standing on end in anticipation, “It couldn’t hurt to try?” He felt John smile against his cheek as he pulled away a little, just enough to face him properly, and their noses bumped against each other before he licked his lips and kissed him once more. It was slow and simple, a brush of highly sensitive lips, skin warm and swiftly tingling. “It worked.” In the inches between them, he felt the puff of lovely responding laughter against his face.

“Brilliant,” John said, resting their brows together. “I should have--”

A cough from the front of the car brought his words to an abrupt end and they turned to the driver who was looking back at them in the mirror, “We’ve arrived.”

John spun in his seat, looking out the window to the single level building surrounded by a well-kept garden and a spacious, almost empty, car park, “Oh,” he said. “Thank you.” He pulled from Sherlock, giving his arm a squeeze, and opened the door.

Sherlock dug into his pocket, paying the driver much more than was needed, strangely thankful that the man hadn’t looked at them with disgust, nor muttered pathetic, unneeded opinions about their sexuality under his breath, “Yes, thank you,” he said as he handed over the money and followed John out onto the pavement.

Once the car door was closed the taxi drove off, undoubtedly to pick up his next overly charged customer, leaving them both to stare at the shelter together, “They would have opened ten minutes ago,” John said as he looked at his watch. He pulled his gloves off a moment later and stuffed them in his pocket, holding out his now bare hand to Sherlock. “Ready?”

Ignoring the doubt, the fear, the heartbreak of the future, Sherlock nodded and slid his hand in John’s, “As I’ll ever be.”

John gave his fingers a squeeze and led the way into the building. The reception area was an almost clinical room that reminded Sherlock too much of a hospital, though the pervasive smell of animal food and hair was plenty enough to sway those thoughts. A man was stood behind the desk, clearly still in the process of opening up, but he looked over when he heard the door. He gave them a fake smile as they approached, eyes more on Sherlock than John.

“Merry Christmas, how can I-?” he started, only to blink, his smile growing more genuine when he looked properly at John. “ _Ah_! Dr Watson. Here to pick up Orion, I assume?”

John smiled back with a nod, “That is the plan,” he said. “Merry Christmas, Ryan.”

Not enjoying, fully understanding, or overly liking social interactions such as what was playing out in front of him, the boring go between, the annoying pleasantries, Sherlock turned his attention to the room again. Trying to calm his thundering heart and keep his face still, blank, unassuming, John’s hand in his was a much needed anchor. However, when he had found nothing of interest in the walls, chairs, or scattered leaflets, Sherlock let his eyes go unfocused and reached with his free hand to hook his fingers around John’s wrist, counting each beat, letting it consume him.

John's fingers squeezed at his and tugged him closer to the desk. He became vaguely aware of the scratching of pens and the clicks of a computer keyboard, but he paid the most attention to the thu-thumping of John's beat, growing steadily faster as time passed. At some point, all the noises stopped and Sherlock felt John squeeze his elbow.

"Sherlock," his voice whispered. "Time to come back now."

With a slightly sharp intake of breath, Sherlock turned his head to John, then glanced at the receptionist, at the papers laid out, the dulled computer screen not properly twisted at the correct angle, and nodded, “Yes,” he told John. “I’m here.”

"Do you want to read through everything, or do you want to just sign the papers?" John asked, indicating the forms that had been filled out save for the signature box at the bottom.

Sherlock leaned closer to scan the text, skimming words with a growing ball of nervous anticipation, “I’ll sign. I trust you read everything,” he said, disconnecting from John’s wrist to pick up the nearby pen, not liking the cheap plastic digging into his fingers and the indentations of several sets of teeth warping the end. He gave the text another glance, reading a few things, absorbing what they were doing, what it all meant, and then signed with bated breath.

When he put the pen down Ryan took up all the sheets of paper and checked things on his computer before tearing a copy to the forms for John to fold away into his pockets, "Now that's all done I'll just fetch a few things and get Judith to bring Orion out." He picked up the phone, typing in a number. "If you'd like to take a seat?" John nodded and led Sherlock towards the chairs in the waiting room nearby.

Sitting, rigid and hyper aware of things outside of the room, Sherlock began stroking incessantly at John’s knuckles, “How did you happen upon this place?”

"One of my walks, actually," John said. "I had some _awful_ patients a few months back and I needed to walk off some steam before I headed home. I ended up walking all the way here. I kept thinking about it on my off time after that."

“You have _many_ days full of awful patients,” Sherlock muttered, eyes glued to a door and fingers pressing, caressing, dragging along the skin of John’s hand.

"... It was after one of our arguments," John explained. "I don't even remember what it was about any more, just that I thought I might do something I'd regret if I went home."

Sherlock froze and then turned to look at him, withdrawing his hand, “That happens quite a bit too,” he said, trying to remember which argument John was referencing.

They argued about an abundance of things, not all of it important. Sometimes it was banter. Other times it was a rage inducing quarrel. Each time, Sherlock had watched John clench his fists and seethe, and each time he had expected a punch and sudden abandonment, things packed away in a frenzy, and then he’d felt panicked when the angry haze had dropped, spending hours waiting for John to snap, leaving the flat cold and empty.

" _Hey_ ," John said, reaching for his hand again. "I'm not going _anywhere_."

“So you keep saying, yes,” Sherlock replied on a sigh, letting John’s fingers coax him back to exposing his palm. “What if you _do_?”

" _Not_ going to happen, Sherlock," John said, running his fingertips over the heart line.

Trapping hold of John’s digits with his, Sherlock sighed, “Should I apologise for whatever it was I said to make you angrily power walk?”

"It's already forgotten," John said, looking into his eyes. "It wouldn't hurt next time though."

“Can I apologise in advance?” Sherlock asked with a snort and a flickering smile.

"If you'd like," John said with a soft smile.

“I’m _deeply_ sorry for what I said, did or how I acted,” Sherlock told him, giving his fingers, wrist and forearm some fond caresses, leaning sideways into John for extra contact.

"And _I'm_ sorry for the way I stormed out and shouted at you."

Shrugging, Sherlock cocked his head, “The shouting, I probably deserve.”

"We're both very stubborn," John said. "There are bound to be fights."

“Yes, obviously—Though not in front of Orion.”

" _Definitely_ not."

“We’ll vacate the room and fight elsewhere,” Sherlock added with some amusement.

"Maybe leave him with Mrs Hudson for a bit," John smirked.

“Oh yes. She’d _love_ that too. She’ll be the go-to dog sitter,” Sherlock said, stroking between John’s fingers with a tickle, loving the way John’s gaze went gentle, his smirk softening at the corners.

"Perhaps we should get her a dog bed for his visits."

“Let’s not get too carried away,” Sherlock huffed.

John chuckled, though the sound was mixed with the ringing of the receptionist's phone, which was soon silenced. After a few seconds Ryan set it down again and placed a paper bag on the desk. "Here he comes," he said and rushed over to one of the doors leading further into the building.

Sherlock got to his feet and backed into the chair with uncertainty the moment the door was swung open, dragging John up with him and then tipping him to be in front, “He...should see you first.”

John, who had been focused on the door, righted himself and pulled at Sherlock’s neck for a steadying kiss, "Alright," he said, "but he's going to _love_ you. I promise."

“If he doesn’t, it’s fine. You...you were the first person he saw, you could just--” Sherlock pressed into John’s back as a whining bark cut him off and a woman with thick framed glasses and vibrant red hair, tied up in a high ponytail, walked through the open doorway, leading an excited, bouncing, sniffing, panting puppy by a blue slip lead. When the pup caught the scent of John, his dark ears pricking as he turned his head in his direction, he went wild with delight.

John gave Sherlock's neck a squeeze of support but as soon as the puppy twisted toward them he was taken, stepping forward and crouching down with wide arms and a wider smile, "Hey there buddy!" he called as the puppy excitedly bounded to him with happy yips and woofs, licking at John’s chin as the man laughed and rubbed at him. "It's good to see you too. What a good boy. What a _good_ boy!"

“He’s missed you _terribly_ ,” the woman, Judith, told him. “Last time you left, he cried for you for much longer than usual.”

"Oh Orion," John cooed, pulling the dog close for a hug, which the puppy fidgeted and twisted in until he pressed his nose into John's chest. "I'm _so_ sorry. I didn't mean to make you sad." He bestowed a kiss between Orion's ears and rested his cheek on top of his head.

“I think he knew though,” Judith said with a tender smile, “that today you’re taking him home. He _bounded_ right over to me and even stretched his neck for the lead!” She bent down to pat the pup on the back and as she straightened, she glanced at Sherlock, her eyes crinkling in happy amusement at how he was cowering behind John. Trapped against the seat with a racing heart, mind stuck on a distant loop of his childhood, his dog. Sherlock felt his cheeks flush and scowled at her with a sudden petulant dislike. “Don’t worry, Orion is a _perfectly_ loving dog. He won’t bite you.”

John looked over his shoulder, his smile still so very warm, and held a hand out for him, "Look, Orion, it's Sherlock. Do you remember what I told you about him? You sleep with his shirt."

“Speaking of, would you like that back?” Judith laughed as Sherlock hesitated and then took John’s fingertips in a light grasp.

"Yes please," John said as he slowly pulled him closer. Orion, who had looked up at his name, was now looking at Sherlock with open curiosity and a hint of nerves, nose snuffling and searching.

Sherlock dug his heels in, not wanting to approach any further, and stared at the floor, at the puppy’s paws, as Judith gave sigh of glee, “I’m _so_ glad he’s going to a good home.”

After a moment the puppy whined and yipped, and his paws moved in exhilaration,  
"Alright, alright," John laughed and, not a second later, Orion was by Sherlock's legs, sniffing him eagerly and barking up at him in eagerness, jumping up and putting his paws on Sherlock's belly.

The action didn’t move him physically, but rather psychologically, emotionally, pushing all the air from his lungs and Sherlock lifted his eyes to look at the dog, the puppy, who recognised him, was greeting him, “Hello Orion,” he managed and reached to touch his head, stroking his ears, bending down to be closer. “Pleased to meet you.”

Orion jumped down, tail wagging furiously as he panted his glee, nosing his hand. John's fingers squeezed at his own, and Sherlock felt the warmth of body heat pressed against his side. "Told you he'd love you."

Sherlock gave a small nod, stroking Orion’s neck, back, and then up under his chin, grinning when he tilted his head to lick and playfully chew on his fingers, “He’s beautiful…”

John rested his hand on his shoulder, "He's _ours_."

“I’ll go fetch the shirt for you while you get to know him,” Judith said, handing the end of the lead to John as she jogged away, stopping momentarily to talk to Ryan.

Orion continued to play with Sherlock’s hand and fingers, licking and biting them at various intervals before hopping up to lap at Sherlock’s cheek, happily energetic. John, that strong, warm weight at his side, chuckled as he did so, and crouched at Sherlock’s side to steal Orion’s attention again, stroking at his head and teasing the puppy.

Sherlock watched and straightened, smiling when Orion glanced up the length of his body at the movement, “He really does like you,” he stated.

“I spent _a lot_ of time playing with him,” John replied as Orion flopped over, allowing John to rub at his belly, which he seemed to love. “I think he was lonely before I found him.”

The smile on Sherlock’s face diminished, “Yes,” he said, knowing how cruel people could be to their pets. “He shan’t be lonely any more.”

“Never again,” John agreed with a firm nod, his own demeanour gaining a sharper edge. It soon vanished, however, when Orion started batting his paws at John’s hands and twisted back onto his stomach.

“Here we are!” Judith laughed as she trotted over, holding the chewed shirt out to John with a sweet, flirting grin that made Sherlock glare, his building jealousy beginning to overflow. “He _really_ does love it.”

“Thank you, Judith,” his said with an oblivious smile. “Is there anything else?”

“I packed some essentials for the first week or so,” Ryan chipped in bringing the paper bag over, though keeping it out of Orion’s reach as he started to sniff at it.

“ _Brilliant_ , thanks,” John said as he rose to his feet. “Would you like to change the lead, Sherlock?—Wait, shit, we haven’t got a collar for him!”

“Oh you can keep the slip lead, he _loves_ it,” Judith told him before Sherlock could speak, and he began grinding his teeth, trying not to say anything about her promiscuous quickie with one of the other staff members moments earlier, the fact she was actually a cat person, that Orion didn’t like the blue lead at all and that’s exactly why she continued to choose it. Her hand landed on John’s arm and Sherlock felt an overpowering prickle of displeasure, glowering at it. At how it left a soft indent in his coat sleeve. “He picks it out from all the rest, he does!”

John hummed, glancing down at her hand with a gaze Sherlock couldn’t read as he held the handle of the blue lead out to him. Once he’d taken it, John slipped his freed hand into Sherlock’s and smiled at them both, exuding a smug aura, “Well, we won’t keep you any longer,” he said. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas, John,” Ryan said, giving them a wave as he headed back to his desk.

“Merry Christmas Ryan,” Sherlock said giving the woman a sneering, triumphant grin as they turned for the door, Orion woofing and bouncing around their feet, ears perked, head tilted. “... _Judith_.”

“We’re going home, Orion,” John told the pup, leaning down to rub his head. “We’re taking you _home_.” Orion barked and yipped and hoped around them as they headed outside, looking and sniffing at the open air.

Sherlock made sure to give the road a wide berth for the time being, not sure if Orion would be scared by a passing car and lorry, or worse, eager to chase one, “Let’s go to the park with him.”

“Sounds good,” John agreed, giving his fingers a squeeze and smiling back at their new dog. Their dog. “He needs to run around a bit. Don’t you, boy?”

“It’s suppose good that he’s heard, and been around, other dogs,” Sherlock murmured as Orion began to strain at the lead, sniffing toward a huddled couple who were walking their way. One of them was a cancer survivor. “Socialisation is important. I would be a little worried if he hadn’t had _any_ sort of interaction at all.”

“You should take him to the park while I’m at work,” John instructed, rolling one shoulder in answer to Sherlock’s sideways scowl. “You were probably already planning on doing that, yes, but even so. I just know it will likely be too late when I get back all the time.”

“We’ll need a walking schedule,” Sherlock told him in answer to the issue, giving the two people a sharp glare when they went to pet Orion. How could strangers get on at him for being rude when they thought it was acceptable to pet a dog that did not belong to them. Orion continued to sniff at them, innocent, and much too curious, though they stepped away when they noticed Sherlock.

“Sounds like a plan,” John said with a nod, glancing at the couple in something that resembled an apology, but Sherlock knew it wasn’t. He hated their forwardness as much as Sherlock had.

“Orion,” Sherlock said to the pup to gain his attention, smiling, anger melting, when the dog turned his head with a happy pant. He bent down to him, cupping the snuggling snout, and lifted his eyebrows. “Don’t talk to strangers.” Orion licked at his nose and continued to pant, clearly not understanding, falling back to Sherlock’s side when he had his chin tickled.

“Good boy,” John said and squeezed Sherlock’s fingers. “You’ll teach him a lot of tricks.”

“ _All_ the tricks,” Sherlock told him, looking down at Orion. He felt better now that they had him, now that he’d met him. He wasn’t a replacement. He was different. His personality, the look in his eyes, the frolicking wriggles, it was unique and Sherlock’s feelings toward them, toward him, was just as distinctive.

“He’ll be the envy of the entire dog community,” John said, “and you, the master dog whisperer.” As if on cue Orion started barking, though it was at a cyclist that was riding past, fast and single minded, as all London cyclists were.

“No, you can’t chase it,” Sherlock told him, bending to keep Orion back, grinning as the pup whined and jumped, trying to get over the barrier of Sherlock’s hand. “No, no. It’s not worth it.”

“Orion, _stop_ ,” John said, his voice stern and commanding. Like a captain. Orion whined but did stop, licking at Sherlock’s hand instead, eyes locked until the person was completely out of view.

“Don’t be mean to him,” Sherlock huffed, stroking his soft head and softer ears, accepting a lick to the cheek when he bent closer down. “Ignore John’s nasty, loud, inappropriate tone. He has _issues_.”

John snorted and chuckled, “We can set the rules later.”

“Mm - He can’t help wanting to chase the bikes, you know,” Sherlock said, giving Orion some more attention before forcing himself to straighten up and continue on, keeping the pup as close to him as he could, wary of other people, though allowing Orion to greet any new dog that happened by. “It’s all instinct. Like licking, the wagging of a tail, the sniffing of rears, the urge to herd and guard, and which direction he’ll defecate in.” John let loose another chuckle, sliding Sherlock an odd look, and Sherlock gave a lopsided grin in reply. “Apparently there was a study on it. Dogs align with Earth's magnetic field when they're relieving themselves. In a north-south position. Clearly they had nothing better to do that day.”

They eventually came to the entrance of the park and Orion’s excitement rose to an all time high. He was tugging furiously on the lead, trying desperately to get into the vast green space, to run and have fun.

“Sit,” Sherlock told him, laughing when Orion ignored him with a whine, body taut and tail wagging. “Orion, sit. _Sit_ boy.” The pup glanced at him, tongue lolling out the side of his open mouth, and after another whimpering whine, he sat down, panting. “ _Good_.”

With one last squeeze of his fingers John released his hand and stepped back, “Go on.”

“He may not come back if called—Will he? If he makes a run for it, I’m pretty sure I can catch him, but I’d rather not go darting after a misbehaving puppy,” Sherlock said uneasily, petting Orion’s head and eyeing the park, gaze scanning the amount of people scattered around, some hidden by trees or relaxing on benches. There were some other dogs, small breeds mostly from what Sherlock could see, though he could hear there were others and knew that the park often allowed all kinds of dogs.

“I think he will,” John said. “Tell him to. He’s pretty clever.”

Crouching, Sherlock took Orion’s head in his hands, smoothing the side of his soft, fluffy, furry face with his thumbs, smirking when he was given a shower of licks and excited, loving snuffles in response, “I’ll be able to catch you,” he put out there with an arched eyebrow. “I’m _very_ good at running. You’ll tire before I do.”

John chuckled behind him, “I can believe that,” he said, his voice light and cheerful. “ _Go on._ ”

“Make friends with the poodle, they’re very smart,” Sherlock whispered into one flickering ear and loosened the slip lead, keeping hold of Orion for a moment or two to check the park again. There wasn’t any aggressive or dangerous animals, and the owners seemed mild mannered from what he could see. There were no vein popping, spit flying shouts, only whistles, clicks, and laughter. Sherlock shifted Orion, gave him a secret nuzzle, and then let him go, stroking a hand down his back.

Orion was gone before Sherlock reached his tail. He bounded across the green with his tongue hanging from his mouth, running around in circles, sniffing and exploring spots in the grass and trees, then eventually coming across the poodle Sherlock had mentioned, starting to greet them.

"He's _so_ happy," John said as Sherlock joined him standing again.

“He’s only young,” Sherlock replied with a slanted smile, twisting the lead between his hands, feeling what it must be like for an anxious parent watching their child go for the first day at school. Orion was small, young, and naïve, just like a child. An intelligent, loyal child.

"Doesn't make his happiness any less infectious," John said, catching Sherlock's hand in his to stop his wringing and worrying.

Sherlock gripped back appreciatively and strolled forward, twirling the lead, “No,” he agreed, watching Orion as he began interacting with the poodle, his backside going up playfully as he jumped around and sniffed the ankles of the dog’s owner, happy when he was cooed at.

John chuckled and followed Sherlock's lead, swinging the bag a little at his side, "You're going to get him to sleep with you, aren't you?"

“You’re welcome to join,” Sherlock replied, giving a nod of greeting to the poodle owner as John blinked up at him, then looked away with a hum and an almost pleased smile. Orion, meanwhile, came to say hello to them, distracting Sherlock as he brushed by before turning back to the poodle, who sniffed back at him in curiosity and greeting. “Though he might not want to sleep with me, with... _us_. He’s used to sleeping on his own. He might prefer it. He might...find a place in the flat to settle, probably the sofa, a chair, and remain there.”

"Most likely yours."

“Oh no, yours, I think.”

"He's used to sleeping with your scent," John pointed out.

“He has a _security blanket_ in the shape of my shirt,” Sherlock corrected him and couldn’t help but smile, stroking John’s thumb with his own, tapping their thumbnails together when John went to reciprocate.

"And now he has the _whole_ of you to tuck up next to at night," John said as Orion started to play with the poodle, though the poodle seemed to be more putting up with it than actually joining in.

Sherlock tried to push his widening smile aside and walked them to a free bench, sitting with a sigh, “He likes and knows _you_ far more than I. That shirt, though mine, was handled by _you_. It smells of us both. We _live_ together. Our lives, our things, are _intertwined_.”

"And apparently we may share the same bed perhaps..."

With a quick look, Sherlock eyed John’s quirked mouth, recognising it as what it was with sudden precision and feeling a rapid pooling of heat, thinking about the implications of his words, “Yes,” he agreed, finding his voice a little hoarse. John grinned but said nothing, simply leaning into him and squeezing his fingers as Orion and the poodle played. Sherlock, knowing he had to warn him about the clear and future implications and actions, tapped his hand, giving a thin smile at John’s questioning eyebrow twitch. “... I don’t know how I’ll react. I’ve not shared the bed with another person before. Not like _this_ , any way. - And, as you know, my sleeping schedule is _not_ common.”

"Well, we could always _experiment_ ," John said, setting the bag down so he could hold Sherlock's hand with both of his.

Sherlock felt his skin tingle and itch with slight arousal at the suggestion, thoughts suddenly lewd, “I’m _always_ up for some experimentation,” he responded with a dip of his chin, beaming as Orion trotted over, panting and happy and sitting beside them as if proud to call them his.

"I thought you might be," John said and reached out to pet the dog, smile growing when Orion leaned into his palm, giving love and attention, before standing and running off again.

“What...did you have in mind?” Sherlock asked, crossing his legs to rotate his foot, trying to act casual as his heart fluttered. Trying to be more interested in the stone lodged in the side of his shoe than he was in their conversation.

"Well, I thought we could either start slow," John replied, running his fingers over the back of Sherlock's hand, "learning how to sleep together, kissing in bed, perhaps some... _stimulating_ exploration next..."

The motions of John’s fingers were unexpectedly seductive, coupling exquisitely with the coy tone of his voice, “Kissing is already rather _stimulating_ ,” he admitted quietly, thinking about how John had grabbed him in Mrs Hudson’s kitchen, how he had tasted and felt in that moment, how he’d been set ablaze by the passion. How he’d wanted more. A lot more.

John hummed, his other hand twisting Sherlock’s to face palm up, as John’s fingers flittered across his pulse in his wrist, “ _Or_ we could start somewhere a little more _exciting_. I do wonder what you taste like…”

“ _T_ _-t_ _aste like_?” Sherlock repeated dazedly, confused, but aroused, knowing John could feel how hard his heart was pumping, how fast, and how much his overall temperature had increased. “You mean that...that you...”

“We might have to get Mrs Hudson to look after Orion on those nights,” John said as though he were making note of the weather.

Clenching his eyes shut, high on John’s confident, come-hither, sexual prowess, Sherlock tried to focus, “I think I should tell you,” he whispered, taking a moment to breathe, dizzy with John’s presence as he leaned closer, inches from Sherlock’s face, “I have not really...that is I…”

“Maybe the slow route then,” John said, his fingers moving to the back of his hand once more.

“Well, I...I’m not saying _no_ ,” Sherlock told him quickly, looking into his face, “You’re...we...we...we _could_...do that. What you wanted. What you said. _Experimentation_ , we agreed.”

“ _Only_ if you--”

At that moment Orion returned, bouncing up to rest his forepaws on their knees as he panted, the poodle having seemingly moved on with their owners. He looked between them with excitement and unbridled joy, shuffling closer until he could lick at their hands, clothes and their faces.

Sherlock snorted with a grin as the lithe wiggling tongue only just caught the underside of his chin, “Yes, yes, we haven’t forgotten about you,” he said, inclining close and offering Orion his cheek, jaw, and neck to lick.

Orion was only too happy to comply, his tongue brushing wet strokes over his skin as John chuckled and patted at his fur, “Such a _good_ boy,” John said. “We love you too.”

As Sherlock leaned away again, gently batting Orion from his mouth, he caught sight of a thick stick near his foot, already wet with saliva, bark broken by sharp teeth, and reached for it quickly, lifting it high when Orion barked and jumped, “ _Sit_ ,” Sherlock told him, arcing his eyebrows, “ _Orion_ , sit— _Good_. So, you want to play with us now that your canine friend has left you, hm? _Certainly_.” With a glance at John, at his beaming smile and warm gaze, eyes both affectionate and still incredibly flirtatious, Sherlock lobbed the stick over Orion’s head and across the green. Orion sprinted after it with a bark, looking up as it arched overhead and dropped with a bounce on the grass. The puppy ran around it before picking up and trotting back to the bench, where John had curled his arm through Sherlock’s.

Taking it back after a mini tug of war, Sherlock stroked his muzzle and then threw it again, “He’s so very clever,” he murmured, impressed and proud.

“He likes new things,” John said, leaning into Sherlock’s side a little more. “He’s _very_ curious.” The dog played with the stick a little bit, chewing, nipping, and pouncing on it, and then crushed it between his teeth, bringing it back again to sit with his panting tongue hanging from his mouth as he waited.

Sherlock held the stick out spiritedly once he got it back, tugging when Orion snapped his jaws around it, testing the dog’s strength with a twisting swing to one side, bopping him on the nose when he barked, “We should stop off at a pet shop before we go home,” he said, chucking the stick again, aiming higher and longer.

“I doubt they’ll be open today,” John said as Orion bounded off. “Most places are closed on Christmas Day after all.”

“ _Most_ , not all,” Sherlock pointed out, resting into John with a smile and tugging his phone from his pocket. “Let’s see which, shall we?”

“Go on then,” John said as Orion came back, growling around the stick while John went to tug at it. The dog huffed and snarled in play at their tug of war before he released it and sat for John to pet his head, stumbling over his own feet when the stick got thrown again.

“He needs _at least_ three different collars,” Sherlock let fall from his mouth as he searched, scrolled, scanned and finally pinpointed a nearby shop that was indeed open. With a few taps and slides of his fingers he learned the route, the name, and put his phone away again. “Another lead. More toys. _A lot_ more toys. A bed. And treats.”

“And you said Mrs Hudson’s spoiling him,” John chuckled, leaning forwards to give Orion more attention when he returned.

“She _is_ ,” Sherlock replied with a smile at the ecstatic pup, “ _I’m_ only getting what is required. Instead of silly dog coats, for example. - He needs more than one collar, just in case he chews one up or breaks one apart, as that’s very easily done; he needs another lead, probably one of those extendable ones; he needs more toys, to learn and play; he needs a bed to sleep in; and he needs treats to successfully be trained and taught more tricks. It’s all quite rational and necessary.”

"Yes, and that's the _only_ reason," John smirked, waving the stick for Orion to chase and jump at.

Sherlock threw John a narrowed look, “ _It is_!”

"Uh huh," John hummed and threw the stick.

“They are essential for _any_ dog!”

"Even 'a lot more toys'?" John asked as Orion bounded about after the stick.

“ _Yes_! He will learn as he plays. He can’t be left to wallow in boredom, John,” Sherlock told him. “He’s a working dog, an energetic dog, he needs _constant_ stimulation of his mind and body.”

John slipped his fingers between Sherlock's and leaned in to kiss his cheek, a part of it that wasn’t still wet with dog spit, "I know," he said, "I was only teasing."

Already shivering from the skimming press of John’s lips and brush of his chin, Sherlock took a few seconds to reply, giving John a huff in the meantime, hating how he blushed, wanting more, incredibly close to begging, “...Obviously I’ll make sure not to get him _too_ much.”

"You'll be the best friend he ever has," John said as the dog himself wandered back with the stick and a wagging tail.

“I hope so,” Sherlock said instead of rebuffing the suggestion, bending forward so Orion could lap at his cheek again. He took the stick and gave it one more throw. “Let’s walk.”

"Sure," John said and picked up the bag as he rose to his feet, fingers still entwined with Sherlock's.

“We’ll take a detour through the park to the shop,” Sherlock announced, giving his phone another glance just to make sure, and waiting for Orion to come back with his nature giving toy before throwing it ahead for them to walk toward.

John bumped charmingly into Sherlock’s side as they followed after the joyful puppy, keeping as close as could, "I'm surprised there are any shops open today."

“It’s few, I grant you, but not all are closed. The big places are, as they are required to by law, but the smaller shops can get away with it,” Sherlock told him.

"Like corner shops?" John asked, stopping when Orion circled them and held the stick out for Sherlock, yipping and jumping and whimpering.

Sherlock took it, “Yes, I assume so. - Large stores of more than 3,000 square feet can’t open on Easter Sunday or Christmas Day, but small shops are free to open when they choose,” he murmured, chucking the stick further. “Good thing to.”

"I'm sure most shut anyway. At least for some of the day anyway."

“Not everyone likes or celebrates this stupid holiday, John,” Sherlock muttered.

John gave his fingers a squeeze, conceding to the point, "Very true. And those decorations on Oxford Street are _blinding_."

Sherlock scoffed at the mention of them, not overly a fan of most, if not all, of the decorations that went up during the holiday season, “A lot of them are horrid, garish, tack, uncalled for, cluttering...”

"The markets are nice though."

“Really not.”

"I like them."

“You _would_.”

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Taking the stick from an impatient, whining Orion, Sherlock gave John a small smile and a shrug, “Nothing…”

"It _does_ ," John said with a smirk of his own.

Stroking at John’s fingertips, Sherlock gave another shrug, this one looser, slower, allowing their arms to rub together for longer, “We can go to one if you want.”

"They're not open on Christmas Day," John said, his voice laced with a giggle.

“Not _now_ ,” Sherlock sighed with a dramatic eye roll. “Another time. Another drawing, dragging Christmas. Though I _detest_ them, we can go to one if you want, if you like them so much. I will be willing to a compromise and give in to you.”

"That would be nice," John grinned when Orion rolled over with the stick, lying in the grass for a moment before running back to them. "We could try their fake German sausage."

Sherlock blinked at him in reply and bent down to take the stick back, flicking slobber from his fingers, “ _Why_?” John just shrugged in reply and so Sherlock mimicked him in frustration, throwing the stick once more. “Then no thank you.”

"I'll get one for myself then," John said and licked his lips. " _Long, hot, thick_ sausages..."

“What _is_ this? What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, feeling his hair stand up with a flush of prickling heat. The sight of John’s pink tongue wetting the skin of his mouth a dizzying turn on. It always had been. Sherlock would very often curse that tongue of his. “Are you...is this an _innuendo_?”

"I'm just describing the sausages," John said innocently.

“It _is_ an innuendo,” Sherlock huffed, not believing the act but not able to stop reacting to the damp sheen on his lips. He wanted to touch. To taste. “ _Stop_.”

"Stop what?" John asked, tilting his head and giving a thoughtful hum, eyes not leaving Sherlock’s face. "I bet they're _juicy_."

“Yes. I’m sure Orion would love to _tear_ them to pieces,” Sherlock added in aggravation, still fixated on John’s mouth.

"I bet he would," John agreed happily as Orion bounded back to them.

“...I don’t know how to take that,” Sherlock mumbled, lost on their conversation, unsure if John was doing what he thought he was or was in fact only pretending to while actually talking about sausages. John never talked about sausages before.

"Tomorrow maybe?" John asked. "The day after?"

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Sherlock griped, bending to take the stick, amused at how bare it now was, and threw it ahead of them.

"Might be," John said and leaned into him as Orion charged, a source of boundless energy.

“No more sausage talk,” Sherlock told him, embarrassed with how breathy his voice sounded as he relished the contact and warmth, spotting John’s cocky smile. “ _Stop it_.”

As they neared the other side of the park, heading for the street once more, Sherlock looped the slip lead around Orion’s neck again, fussing with the pup’s face, his muzzle, his ears, neck and the fluffy fur of his chest. Orion complained, nipping at the lead, but didn’t draw out the issue, trotting around them as they stepped out onto the pavement, tangling up between their legs a few times. Though it had been years since he’d taken a dog for a walk, especially a young, boisterous one, he found that owning a dog was a lot like riding a horse, it wasn’t something his body, his subconscious, forgot, and he was able to slip the lead free of them with several twists, moving Orion to his side.

John, meanwhile, kept a tight hold of his hand, even when they started getting sweaty, his face set in a relaxed smile as they walked down the streets of London. He smiled brighter occasionally, usually at Orion when he did something John considered funny, but every so often it would just blossom without any obvious reason, followed by a firm squeeze to Sherlock's fingers.

Soon enough though, they reached the small pet shop, the unmistakable sound of Christmas songs playing from the radio behind the counter, “ _Oh God_ ,” Sherlock grumbled under his breath, peering in through the window, eyeing what he needed and where it was stored and shelved, planning a route through the small, short aisles. The less need to linger, to socialise, the better. There were only three people at the counter. Two slowly perusing, one of whom was stealing. Bracing himself, Sherlock brought Orion close and reached to push open the door, shooting a smiling John a warning glower. “ _Don’t_ talk.”

John frowned at him but hummed in submission, "Oh! Merry Christmas!" called the woman to them from behind the counter, but quickly turned back to her other customers before either of them could say anything in return. Not that Sherlock would.

Sherlock gave John another look with his eyebrows pointedly raised, making sure he didn’t try and engage the woman in any sort of friendly conversation, and walked, with an inquisitive pup, through the shop, gathering up a basket as he went, “I _hate_ this song,” he hissed between his gritted, teeth, shooting a hot glare up at the speakers. John gasped in mock shock and grinned up at him. “Shut up.”

John looked at him as if to say 'but I didn't say anything' and released his hand to look through various treats. Orion took the chance to sniff at the various toys on the shelves below.

“No, no,” Sherlock told him, grabbing for John’s wrist to gently redirect him. “I _know_ what I’m getting. We will _not_ stay here any longer than we need to. Just follow me, look after Orion, and _don’t say a word_.” Tugging John further into him, away from the sudden prying eyes of one of the two patrons, Sherlock lead both his John and his dog, around the prepared path, gathering what they needed, slinging it into the basket, and then stopping in the queue in record time.

John crouched down to stroke Orion's head as they waited for the previous customers to be served, distracting him from all the items that the shop owners had put on display at a precariously low angle, "Merry Christmas!" the woman greeted again, her chest covered in a gaudy Christmas jumper.

“Mm, yes,” Sherlock said dismissively, wanting to get out before another Christmas song started. Feeling the glare John gave him on the back of his head, Sherlock forced a smile. “Merry Christmas to you too.” He swallowed his annoyance and placed his items in front of her, getting out his wallet. “And a happy New Year excreta..”

"Looks like someone got a special _something_ under the tree," the abominable woman said as she started scanning everything through. "Did you need a bag, dear?"

Sherlock avoided eye contact with John, face stupidly heating at her words, whether she meant them how he heard them or not, “ _Yes_ ,” he replied, holding back the next few curt words and holding his smile in place. How else did she expect him to carry everything, on his head?

"Looks like you're taking good care of the new family member," she said, packing away everything and scanning the next few.

“Yes,” Sherlock said again, eye twitching, smile stretching his face, digging into his cheeks. She smiled back as she scanned the last of the items and told him the price, putting it in the bag. Sherlock waved his card at her and tried not to snatch the card reader when it was held out in response. “Straight home now, John.”

"Am I carrying everything?" John asked quietly with a resigned tone.

“It’s _tempting_ , and you are in need of a work out,” Sherlock replied, taking his card back once the money was transferred and grabbing the bag, shoving it into John’s broad, lovely, solid, warm chest as he pushed them all toward the door. “But no. We shall share the burden.”

Once they stepped into the streets again, John set the bags down and pulled on one of his gloves before picking one of the bags up again, giving Orion a pat on the head and holding his hand out to Sherlock and smiling, “Home then?”

Sherlock looked back at him, at the hand he offered and the relationship it contained, at Orion who was panting and looking up at both of them with so much love and joy, and bent briefly for the other bag, giving John a genuine grin as he took his hand in full, blissful agreement, “Home.”

**Author's Note:**

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